


Thorns

by Kaelas, yamikuronue



Series: Real Hotheads of Kirkwall [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Alternate Universe - Cyberpunk, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Antarctica, Bad Templars (Dragon Age), F/F, Fantastic Racism, For Science!, Mage Hawke (Dragon Age), Magic and Science, Racism, Religion, Research
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-14
Updated: 2020-08-15
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:27:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 16
Words: 117,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22249390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kaelas/pseuds/Kaelas, https://archiveofourown.org/users/yamikuronue/pseuds/yamikuronue
Summary: Marian Hawke Amell knows what she wants to be in life: famous, recognized, important. She doesn't need her shitty family to do it, either; she's going to do it all on her own, her fuck-up twin be damned. So when she's given the chance to study a once in a lifetime phenomenon in the Fade, she's going to Antarctica, no matter what it costs her with her family. And if that means she has to wrangle uppity elves, arrogant witches, and her absent-minded adviser, well, she'll just have to do that too. And while she's at it, what's a group of Qunari mercenaries, a recalcitrant ex-Gray Warden, and a whole host of Templar on top of it? She'll do it all. She's Marian Motherfucking Hawke Amell. She can do anything.
Relationships: Female Hawke/Merrill
Series: Real Hotheads of Kirkwall [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1316675
Comments: 3
Kudos: 16





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to Thorns! This is a direct sequel to New Rules and contains minor spoilers for the previous work. I'll be posting the third book in the series, Issues, as well, in chronological order instead of book order; if you're coming in after the books are finished, feel free to read all of Thorns before you read any of Issues, but if you're reading this as I post it, you'll get two books for the price of one. Thorns and New Rules overlap in time, and then Thorns and Issues overlap in time as well.

_You told me that I was someone_

_never worth fighting for._

_I wonder how you'd cope if you could only see me now._

_You wouldn't recognise me._

Garrett ruins _everything._

Marian Hawke Amell hasn't spent her whole life studying her ass off, being top of her class in _every_ class, and completing 3/4 of her graduate degree by the time she's 23 just for her idiot twin brother to ruin her big chance. This expedition isn't just a research trip, like the one that disastrously fell through in Greece; no, this is way bigger than a typical grad program project. She's literally packing for Antarctica for the chance of a lifetime, to study a one of a kind Fade phenomenon, as part of the only team equipped and ready to send in, when her fucking twin goes and pisses off the very people bankrolling the expedition.

Marian isn't the most religious person. But she believes in Andraste, unlike the Jews or the Qunari, and she is willing to abide by the church restrictions against blood magic if it gets her what she wants: research opportunities. Funding. A future. She's too damn talented and too damn hard working to let some pissy feud between her fuck-up twin and the Templars ruin her life.

This is how it happens:

Marian grew up around computers, her life on the internet. So she is well versed in creating and using filters for her email, her social media, her text message inbox. Her mother is fond of sending her long, pointed barbs, reminding her what a failure she is, what a disappointment to the family; she was the first to be filtered, shunted to a folder for 'small doses' reading when Marian can handle it. Then Leandra talked her husband into sending guilt-trip emails about "you should reply to your mother, she loves you", so he gets filtered too. For good measure, Marian filters the rest of the family; Beth's weekly newsletter with every detail of the family life was just making Marian feel guilty about not being there, and if Garrett bothers to write it's usually something inane. News articles about the family get shunted to the same folder: she's got a search running for any articles about her or her family so she can keep up on what's going on, at least when she's in the right headspace for it.

And lately, she's not been in the right headspace very often. The Greece fiasco weighs on her more than she'd like to admit, so she spends her time looking forward to the bright future, not dwelling on the past. And like it or not, the Amells and the Hawkes are all in her past now.

But it's her birthday, unfortunately, and that means she better the hell check the family folder. What she finds shocks her: Garrett's been arrested by the Templar, accused of blood magic. Marian calls him in nearly a panic, desperate to do anything, anything, to get him to shut the fuck up and stop ruining her life. It doesn't go well; she gets chewed out, of course, and hangs up feeling guilty and miserable, just like always.

_Never call home,_ she reminds herself. _It's not worth it._

She sighs, flopping onto the bed, and scrolls through the rest of the folder on her phone. Finally, unable to sit still any longer, she heads down the hall to her adviser's office. Dagna is Shiren (what the ignorant would call a "dwarf"), not a mage, but she's still one of the most knowledgeable researchers in the field, and Marian is grateful every day to her own hard work earning the chance to work with her.

Marian knocks, then pushes the door open. "So there's a situation."

"Don't breathe in!" The warning comes from the back of the room, slightly muffled by the mask the Shiren is wearing. Her eyes are a bit wide as she stares at Marian over the top of her desk, which is mostly taken up by a cast iron tub being heated by six Bunsen burners that have been tied together with wire. Greenish fumes rise from the tub, illuminated by irregular purple sparks.

Marian tugs her shirt up over her nose and mouth, providing a filter; she stays back, in the doorway. "Maker," she mutters. "Again?!"

"No, of course not! This is a completely different experiment," Dagna assures Marian as her attention returns to the tub. "Do you happen to have any nail polish on you?" _Hmmm. I bet if I introduce a strong enough base (vinegar not nearly enough, maybe lye?) it would interfere with the propagation of impurities which— wait, didn't Marian say something about—_ "What's wrong?"

"I might have some in my bunk but listen, Dagna— Professor Janar— have you heard anything from the church? About our funding?" She takes a deep breath _(acrid fumes, dammit Dagna, you're going to ruin that wonderful brain of yours breathing this stuff)_ and tries to settle her tone into something more crisp, more professional.

Dagna reaches up to scratch her chin thoughtfully, then starts as she touches the mask over her lower face. Granted, it would work better if she had it hooked up to an air supply instead of just using the filter, but at least she remembered to use _something_ this time. In front of her, the mixture starts to send up wisps of blue mist, and the sparks shift to a bright pink.

"Our funding? Noooo," she says slowly, eyes dancing guilty to her computer. Given the take-out containers stacked three high atop the keyboard, she probably hasn't checked her emails in two or three days. Unless she used her implants of course, but Marian knows very well she hasn't. There's good reason for why Dagna, despite her brilliance, has so much trouble keeping assistants around. She's very nice, supportive and flexible, but is almost completely dependent on Marian (her only assistant at current) to keep up on paperwork. And meals. Basic safety regulations. "There's another mask over on the shelf there, can you stir this? I'll, ah, just, uh, check that real fast ?"

"Please do, it's very important," says Marian, moving rapidly to pick up the mask and fit it over her face. That said, she moves to stir the liquid, considerably more rapidly than Dagna was doing; she's well aware that will increase the effectiveness of the catalyst, helping it consume the reagent faster and produce less toxic fumes overall. _Dagna ought to know that too, if she were paying attention. And where's the magnetic stir-bar I bought her last month?_

"Soooooo... what's this about?" Dagna asks as she clears her way to the keyboard. She can be absent minded and doesn't always think things through, but she's not a fool. Marian wouldn't just ask this for no reason. "Careful not to scrape that or stir too fast. It's kind of flammable," she adds without looking. "Or, well, combustible, I guess is the better English."

"There's been a situation with my family," says Marian, hesitantly. "A church situation. A Templar situation, apparently. I hope you know by now that I would never take any actions deemed illegal by the City of Kirkwall, or any place we might be residing at the time, nor would I ever condone actions the Church of Andraste has deemed immoral or ethically dubious, but... the same cannot be said for those I happen to be related to."

That actually makes the dwarf pause and glance back at Marian. "Uh, that was... official sounding? And kind of ominous? Are you breaking up with me?"

"What?" _I wasn't aware we were dating??! Oh, no, she means, am I quitting the position as her assistant. Duh, Marian. Nobody knows you're sapphic out here._ "Ah, no, no, nothing like that. I intend to work for you as long as you'll have me. But if my working here jeopardizes the mission..."

Dagna snorts. "Not having you would jeopardize my work. I can't function without assistance," she admits without shame. "And you've lasted a whole sixty-two percent longer than my second best so far with probably close to twice the effectivness." She turns back to her computer. "If they want me for this expedition— and they really do— you have to be there."

Marian is grateful for the mask; it hides the entirely unprofessional blush spreading across her cheeks. _Maker. Definitely need to book more me-time in the future, I'm reading way too much into a simple compliment_. "Got it, boss."

"Junk, junk, junk, important junk, penis medication advert— why do I get so many of those?— visa requirement reminder— oops— more junk, ah! Here we go, let's see..." Dagna hums softly, then lets out a soft "huh".

Marian tenses, almost forgetting to stir for a moment. "Huh?"

"Blah blah blah, due to concerns about safety and security, blah blah blah— we're getting a full squad of Templar guards sent with us," Dagna reports. "No change to our funding or anything mentioned. A few more forms to fill out and sign. Should probably do that before I forget."

_What?_ In the past, a younger, more impulsive Marian would have shrieked, but today she's already been reamed out for losing her temper, so she bites her tongue. Hard. _They're going to be watching my every move. Well. Okay. This can't be worse than living with Mother, can it? Just don't do anything wrong. Ever. That'll be easy enough._ "This is bubbling," she says instead.

"Little bubbles or big ones?" Dagna asks curiously as she prints out two copies of all the new forms.

"Little. Are you going to be okay around Templar?" She doesn't give any warning for the topic switch— not uncommon when she's agitated.

"Why wouldn't I be?" Dagna asks. "What color is it now?" _Shouldn't be any bubbles at all... neat!_

"Puce," she replies promptly. "I mean, unless you've converted recently, you're not Catholic. Not even one of the heretical Andrastaen sects, either. Are they going to cause trouble for you?"

"Oh right, they're a religion too. I forget that sometimes," Dagna observes absently. "Might want to add that acetone now."

"Ah, right, uh, where did you put it?" she asks, looking around. "I didn't bring any— what do you mean you forget the Templar are a religion?! They're a religious army."

"I don't have any— I asked you to... oh right, you said you didn't have any. That's gonna be a problem. Ummm." She pauses, looking up at the ceiling. "Lower the heat and add... I should have some mineral oil in my desk, bottom left drawer. Add that. I'll just try again sometime. Mostly just think of them as prison guards I guess. And an army too. The religious part doesn't seem all that important I guess?"

Marian pulls open the desk drawer, making a face. _How hard is it to get all the ingredients together **before** you start brewing?_ she wonders, not for the first time. "In any event, I'll just try to keep clear of them, and you should too."

"Unless they become relevant to Science!" Dagna proclaims.

" _Please_ don't do any science the Templar would be relevant to. I'm begging you. Don't do it."

"Science leads where it will, you know that," Dagna says firmly, then hops off her seat. "Okay, got the forms printed out. Huh. Four pages, three of which are about blood magic. Weird. Last one is... oh fuck no, I am _not_ letting them read all my mail!"

"What do they want you to sign?" asks Marian, keeping a close eye on the pot as it stops bubbling.

"They want to be able to read any ingoing or outcoming mail, _and_ keep a copy of it in their archives!" Dagna scowls darkly. "Not a chance! We're going to build a secure communication device," she decides.

"I meant about blood magic, Dagna," she sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose.

"Oh." Dagna pauses a moment, then hands her half of the papers. "Uh, here, you can read yourself but, uh, looks like 'don't' basically. With a side of 'see something, say something'."

Marian skims the papers rapidly, her shoulders untensing. "Alright. This is pretty standard. I expected something like this. You're not bringing any blood mages, right?" _As if she'd know. I'll have to check the roster myself._

"Uhh. Noooo, don't think so," Dagna replies with a squint. "Unless you're...?"

"I _just_ told you I'd never do anything illegal in the state of Kirkwall. I don't have the proper licensing to learn Blood Magic!"

"Oh. Good to know," Dagna says with a shrug. "Shame though. Could be interesting to test with stuff. Anyway. Then no, not that I know of anyway. No clue what skills the group from Arcana Historical has though." She sniffs disdainfully at the other group, dutifully proud of her own department, Arcane Research.

"I'll find out, and draft a correspondence alerting them to the change in staffing. Maker, I hope they're bringing their own food and supplies. We're packed to the brim as-is— if we have to supply them, we'll need to start leaving equipment behind. Oh, and the guide will want to know, too."

"Staff changes?" Dagna asks, flipping the pages over to try and find out what she missed.

"The full squad of Templar you mentioned accompanying us?" asks Marian, quirking an eyebrow.

"Oh, right. Well, they're not _staff_ really. Staff is useful. Unless... you think we can make them carry our stuff? Templar are supposed to be big and strong, right?"

"Dagna, we'll be in _Antarctica_. We'll have to ensure there's enough food and tents and waste-bags— oh, nevermind, I'll take care of it all." _As usual_. "Do you have exact numbers? Forward me the email. I'll get right on that this afternoon." Judging the air to be sound, she pulls off her mask, tosses it back onto the shelf. "On the bright side, we still get to go, right? This is going to be great. For science!"

"For Science!" Dagna agrees with a cheer. "I already forwarded the email to you but it said something about them bringing their own supplies. That probably means food too, I guess. Could just be their, you know, swords and stuff." A pause. "Hey, you think if I asked, they could bring an extra I could test?"

"No!" she says, enthusiastically, jabbing a finger at Dagna. "Now clean up your experiment while I handle our trip. And don't forget to finish packing!" Then she's off again, her spirits somewhat lifted by the exchange. _At least my idiot twin didn't quite ruin **everything** this time._ Still, she didn't exactly plan on a squad of Templar accompanying them on their expedition. _This is going to be fun..._

* * *

One week later, she finds herself exactly where she always dreamed of being: surrounded by shipping crates, dogs, and gear, instructing burlier types on which boxes go into which off-road vehicles. She's got a clipboard full of paperwork, a good pen, and a lot of help. So what if it's not really her expedition? She might be only the research assistant, but at the end of the day, Marian is the person people go to in order to Get Shit Done.

She always has been. She's been the smart twin, the organized twin, the twin willing to lie and cheat if that's what it takes to get her the top grade she rightfully deserves. She's not going to let petty problems like a squad of Templar stop her. She's Marian Hawke Amell, dammit, and she's going to be the world's next Malcolm Hawke, research genius and tech disruption guru. Who cares if her family can't stand her? Neither could her father's stand him, and he made his own way in the world without any support. So can she.

"Miss Amell?" asks one of the movers. "The guide wants to see you in the garage."

_Showtime_. She hasn't met Mr Blackwall yet, but she knows him by reputation. He's the best guide this region has seen, a retired Grey Warden out of Tevinter, and the one who found the Manifestation; he's the only person alive who knows how to get back there without a map, and he's agreed to personally guide her team— _Dagna's_ team to the location and back safely. He's in charge of hiring security, which she also hasn't met; she insisted on meeting everyone personally before they set out, so that's likely why he's summoned her.

She trots to the garage, clipboard tucked under her left arm so she can offer her right to shake.

Mr Blackwall turns out to be a broad-shouldered man, objectively tall, though dwarfed next to the man beside him. His rugged brunet beard seems designed to keep him warm, just the same as his fur coat; he offers a hand to shake, nodding once as he appraises her. "Miss Amell. This is The Iron Bull. He and his Chargers will be providing security for the expedition."

Not that she hears a word of it, given the person he's introducing. The Iron Bull had been sitting behind a crate, fiddling with the tire of one of the trucks but he stands as she approaches. And stands, and stands, and stands. He's eight feet tall or near enough to make no difference, with shoulders that seem broader than she could reach with her arms spread. He's also got horns and dark grey skin— he's a qunari, from the Middle East, likely one of the African nations there, given the hue of his skin. A qunari. On a trip with Templar escorts.

The fact that he's in glossy pink full plate barely even registers.

"Pleasure to met you, Miss."

Marian stares up at him. And stares. And stares again. Finally, when she recovers sense, she turns to Blackwall. "No. Absolutely not! As I advised you a _week_ ago, this trip is sanctioned by the Catholic Church of Andraste of Kirkwall. We have a full squad of Templar accompanying us! There is _no way_ you are bringing a _Qunari Heathen_ on _my_ expedition!"

"Sorry to waste your time, then, miss. I hope you have good maps," replies Blackwall, his voice too casual.

"Less of a pleasure," the qunari notes, though he seems rather amused by her reaction.

"What are you _thinking_ ," she hisses. "I want to trust you, I do, but there are _Templar_ coming along! What am I meant to tell them?"

"I would suggest beginning with 'praise the Maker'. It'll throw them off the scent," replies Blackwall. "There's nothing illegal about hiring Qunari bodyguards, Miss Amell."

"Also, it's just 'bodyguard.' Singular. Rest of my boys are human, elf or dwarf." He scratches his chin thoughtfully. "Think some of them are even Andrastian, come to think of it."

Miss Amell eyes him suspiciously. "Is that allowed?"

"Nobody's killed me over it so far," he replies cheerfully.

"I can't have our Templar escort and our guards fighting!" she protests. "You killing them would be just as inexcusable as the alternative, understood?"

"So fuck it out instead of fighting it out; got it boss," The Iron Bull says, giving her an enthusiastic thumbs up. "Rocky, the hell are you doing? Bombs go in the rear truck! No, I don't care if that means you have to walk over and get them!" He sighs a little. "I should go work that out," he remarks, giving a wave before he ambles over the scowling dwarf across the room.

"...why doesn't he—" _care what I have to say about it?_ wonders Marian, though she shuts up halfway through.

"Look, the truth is, you want to get to the rift, you need The Iron Bull and his Chargers. But hey. It'll work out. I've had him around Templars before. He won't cause trouble."

Marian stares after the Qunari for a moment, frowning. "You'd best be right. Oh! The halla! I'd better make sure they're going to be okay with his horns." So saying, she strides away from Blackwall, heading to where she saw the dogs being taken.

Exiting the garage, Marian crosses to the next building over, which has been repurposed as the kennel-slash-stable for their expedition's preparations. The first thing Marian notices upon entering— aside from the powerful smell of animal musk— is the sound of delighted giggles. As her eyes adjust to the dim lighting, she spots the source of the laughter. There's a huddle of dogs, three huskies and two mabari, crowded around a figure kneeling down to pet them. The dogs are clearly happy with this, tags wagging and pleased yips and grunts, though there's some playful tussles as they fight for the limited hands. It's hard to see much detail of the person, given the gloom and canines in the way, but they have long glossy hair down to their waist, faint glimmers of blue light in their hands and long tapered ears.

"Who's a good doggo? Is it you? And you? And you too? Yes it is! Yes it is! Oh you're all lovely doggos. Big, strong doggos, yes you are," she croons to them.

"The... kennel master, I presume?" says Marian, crossing to the woman. _Elf woman. Elven woman? Whatever you call a female elf._ "Right, I need to ask you about the halla. Are they going to be upset by the presence of a Qunari? I don't know if they get territorial about horns or whatnot," she adds, looking over to the beasts in the stalls: larger halla than she's ever seen before, with thick, woolly coats and impressive antlers.

The woman who is an elf, or elven woman for short, twists around to face Marian. She has bright green eyes, like backlit jade, and a tiny button nose; her face bears the traditional Vallaslin and a look of confusion. "Sorry, what? Did you just ask if the halla are horny?" One of the huskies whines softly, saddened by the removal of hands, and she turns back to fuss over him.

"No, pay attention! There's a Qunari on this expedition, you know," and she lifts two fingers to demonstrate horns atop her head. "Will it bother them?"

The elf glances over at Marian, a blank look on her face. Then, in a slow, careful voice, as if she's not sure if _Marian_ is paying attention— or perhaps all that bright— she replies, "I'm pretty sure they've seen fingers before. I'm sure they'll be fine."

" _Horns_ ," she snarls in return. "Maker's breath. Will the horns bother them?!"

"Oh, you should have just said that instead of being racist," the elf replies with a nod of understanding. "I have no idea. Probably not." She flashes a smile and returns to playing with the dogs.

"Racist?" she snaps. "I'm not racist! You misheard me before, I wanted to be clear. What do you mean you don't know? Isn't that your job, to know these sorts of things?"

"My job?" The words are lightly spoken, curious but absently so. Following them is another giggle as one of the mabari licks her cheek.

"You're the animal expert, not me," Marian continues.

"I suppose that's a matter of perspective, though it doesn't bode well for your skill with animals."

"What— why are we paying you, if not to know these things?!"

The elf sighs, then stands up. "Sorry doggos, break time is over," she murmurs, running a faintly glowing hand over each of them before she turns around. "At a guess, I'm being paid to be here because of my PhD in ancient elven magic or perhaps my expertise in transtemporal and transpatial magics, though there isn't an established board of peers to grant me a PhD in that field yet given that Doctors Dobanim and Rochester, Miss Baloi and myself are pretty much it for experts," she replies blandly. "Doctor Merrill of the Sabrae clan. And you are?"

Marian stares for a moment. "So you're not the— then why are you here playing with the dogs if you're not the animal expert I hired?"

Merrill waits a moment, then sighs. "Is something wrong?" She actually sounds a little concerned, though it's largely buried under weariness.

"Oh, no, only everything," she mutters. "I'm Marian Hawke Amell, assistant to Doctor Dagna Janar, and I'm tasked with ensuring everything flows smoothly so we can embark. And now I find there's a _Qunari_ leading our guard forces, in addition to a squad of Templar soldiers sent along as an escort, meaning I've got to ensure we don't have any _other_ unforeseen problems so I can stop them from killing each other before we've even got to the rift!"

"You mean Althawr Alhadidiu? He's very nice, I'm sure he won't be much trouble at all. Well, to us. He's very large and skilled with his greataxe from what I've seen." The elf studies Marian for a moment, then offers a smile. "You look very tense and agitated. Understandably so, given what you just said but still. Being that wound up is bad for your productivity. You need to take five minutes to pet a doggo. Or a halla if you want."

"I don't _have_ five minutes," she snaps. "I still have to look over the gear, meet with the Templar leader, and report all this back to Dagna, and we're scheduled to begin loading the trucks in fifteen minutes!"

Merrill narrows her eyes. "Why do you have to look over the gear? Each group has already done so. And Mister Wall has looked over the trucks and is supervising the loading as the expert."

"Because if anyone is trying to sneak in contraband, the Templar _will_ find it and _I_ will be the one arrested, so I've decided to personally inspect the gear before we leave."

"Why would you be arrested? And how would the Templar find whatever you're afraid of?" At some subtle cue from the elf, one of the mabari ambles over to Marian to lean against her leg and stare up with soulful pleading.

"Because it's _my_ fault the Templar are here, it's _me_ they're keeping an eye on." Marian glances down at the dog, but doesn't move to pet it. "If you're not the kennel master, I need to find the real one. Have a pleasant afternoon." She turns to go, with no further farewell than that.

" _I'll_ find him," Merrill calls after her. "You take a minute to just breath before you have a break down. Please."

Marian looks over her shoulder at the elf girl— no, the professor. "I can handle a little stress," she snaps. "I'm _Marian Hawke Amell_. Stress is my middle name."

"That sounds terrible— you should think of changing it to something more pleasant!" _Poor lady... She sounds very lonely._

Marian stares at her in disbelief a moment, then shakes her head. "I don't have time for this. I've got to meet with the Templar Knight-Commander."

So saying, she heads out of the kennel, looking for the sunburst logo or the flaming sword. _At least Templar are never hard to find._

It's not a sunburst that leads her to them, but instead chanting coming from around the back of the garage, where she recalls seeing an open area earlier.

_-taken His gift_   
_And turned it against His children._   
_They shall be named Maleficar, accursed ones._   
_They shall find no rest in this world_   
_Or beyond._

Transfigurations 1:2 is not exactly the verse Marian would like to hear right now, much less for the Templar to be reciting right as she meets them. Doesn't help that none of them have much in the way of harmony. Or an understanding of tone or pitch. Glancing around the corner, she spots a half dozen men in heavy armour arranged in a semicircle. Five of them are in modern tactical gear, but one, the leader by the rank markings, is in traditional metal full plate. In the center of the group is a Chantry sister leading the chant.

_Oh goodie, my favorite chapter and verse_. Marian walks up nearby, adding her own voice quietly: "all men are the Work of our Maker's hands, from the lowest slaves to the highest kings. Those who bring harm without provocation to the least of His children are hated and accursed by the Maker."

Of course she knows the whole of Transfigurations. She engaged in a Bible study as a girl, memorizing most of the Chant and several entire sermons from the _Talmud_ that accompanies it in bound editions to make up the Bible. Only the former is the word of Andraste herself, of course, but the latter was laid down by various Divines over the centuries to accompany the Chant and provide further Maker-inspired guidance. Several of the heretical sects add to it, of course, or remove certain sections, but the Divine mandates what is and is not to be included in the official Catholic version.

They continue for another few minutes before the sister ends the sermon. The Templar turn to stare at her, not entirely welcoming, but it's the officer that approaches. "All are welcome to listen and speak the Chant," he says, offering a polite smile. "But few invite themselves to readily to a recital in progress." His tone is questioning, curious about her intentions.

"My apologies. I have come seeking the Knight-Commander? Or whomever is in charge of this group."

"That would be me," the man replies with a nod. "I am Knight-Captain Brian Greagoir. One squad is a bit small to need a full Knight-Commander."

"I see. I am Marian Hawke Amell, assistant to Dagna Janar, and I've been tasked with ensuring all the appropriate groups have their gear in order, inspecting said gear— your own exempted, of course— and ensuring that we have a smooth loading process. Is there anything you need of me?"

"I believe everything in regards to gear is in order. We have all the supplies we need," Greagoir answers easily. "There is some last minute paperwork still pending but it's not with your department."

"Good, good. Do let me know if you have any trouble; I'm coordinating across departments."

Greagoir considers her for a moment, then shrugs. "Very well. We've been having... difficulty with a Doctor, ah, Saab-ray? With her paperwork."

"Ah yes, the elf. Doctor Merrill of clan Sabré. She didn't sign her release forms?" Marian frowns, nodding, as if she's displeased but also this is exactly what she'd expect.

"We're not sure," Greagoir replies with a frown. "She filled them out but not in English. Or Russian either for that matter. None of my squad recognize the language at all to be frank."

"May I see? I speak several languages fluently and can recognize more on sight."

Another considering look. "Very well. Knight-Recruit Devins, escort Miss Amell to our truck and show her Doctor Sabray's paperwork." One of the templar springs over, snaps a salute at Greagoir, then turns to face Marian. "Ma'am!"

"Yes, charmed, right behind you," she says quickly, and follows him to the truck.

The recruit nods at her before leading her to the paperwork. He gets it out, after pointedly staring at her until she backs up enough that she can't watch him do it. Then, when he hands the file over to her, he hovers. Closely. As for the file itself, well, Marian recognizes it as using the elven alphabet but that's about it. Elvish is a nearly forgotten language itself, known only in part by the rare scholar and Dalish tribes, with true fluency found only among the most conservative of the Dalish. This looks even older the the Elvish Marian has seen before.

"It's Elvish," she says with a sigh. "I can't read it."

"We had suspected as much, but it doesn't match anything in the phrase book we have," the recruit says politely.

"It's ancient Elvish. Which makes sense, as she's attached to the history department. Clearly it's some sort of prank. I'll speak with her."

"Very well ma'am," he replies, hand reaching out for the file.

Marian hands the file back, asking only, "Do you have a blank I can take with me?" before she heads off in search of _that damn elf_.

Sadly, she's waylaid before that can happen. And by someone she can't just brush off. "Marian! Oh good, Marian! Hey, over here!" Her mentor waves rapidly, as if to ensure Marian can spot her. Next to her are two females, one an older woman with snow white hair in a strange headpiece and stern demeanor that Marian vaguely recognizes. A professor, and a very tenured one. Which, given the limited number of people around, likely makes her Flemeth Korcari, Dagna's counterpart in Arcana Historical. The other woman, then, must be the other researcher from the party: Morrigan Korcari. Marian thought it strange that both women shared a surname, but upon doing her research, she'd lost interest in the younger. _Who brings their daughter along on an outing like this? It reeks of nepotism._

Morrigan glances over Marian briefly, not particularly interested in the younger woman. _Barely more than a girl, really. A little slip of a thing, dressed to impress, running hither and yon with an actual clipboard. She'll be gone in a year, chewed up by the beast that is Acadamia and spit out like so much tobacco when her youth and passion is spent_. She sniffs, turning back to the conversation. "As I was saying, I will need to transport my goods myself. There are living creatures that require special handling."

Marian trots over, frowning. "Dagna, we have a situation— nice to meet you, you must be Flemeth Korcari, I am Marian Hawke Amell, Professor Janar's assistant— we have a situation, have you seen the elf girl? Merrill?"

"Dean Korcari, yes," Flemeth draws as she gives Marian a once over. "And I suspect you refer to _Doctor_ Sabrea?"

Dagna frowns at her colleague. "We're on expedition, titles are a matter of respect, not protocol. And no, I haven't, Marian, not today anyway. What's wrong?"

"That's the one— there's trouble with her paperwork," she says, ignoring the woman's tone.

"Respect, yes... something the young so rarely learn. Or earn for that matter," Flemeth notes. "Morrigan, I will speak with our carters. Go finish packing."

"What kind of trouble?" Dagna asks, scowling openly at Flemeth.

"It isn't filled out correctly; I'm not certain if her English is bad or what, but she filled the paperwork out in Ancient Elvish."

"As you like, Mother," says Morrigan, eyeing Marian out of the corner of her eye. _I could translate it for her, I suspect. But best not to get involved._

"Huh. That's a clever trick," Dagna says with a grin. "I should start filling mine out in traditional runic mandarin."

"It's causing a _problem_. With the _Templar_. We spoke of this, if you recall; how we're trying _not_ to cause problems with the Church?"

"Right. Yes. Funding and stuff. Yes." Dagna frowns, thinking. "Well. I know she's traveling with the Chargers— she's here solo, no staff, so that was easiest. So I guess start there?"

Marian pinches the bridge of her nose. "Right. The Chargers. I plum forgot to mention. Dammit."

"...about?" Dagna wonders.

"Their leader is a _Qunari_."

"Huh. I wonder if he'd let me—" Danga coughs at the look on Marian's face. "Right. That's bad because... Templar." She squints, clearly trying to focus. "Because of the Marches. Tension. Fighting. Bad."

"Yes, Professor. Tension, fighting, bad."

"Maybe he's a... polite Qunari?" Dagna offers.

"Yes, that would solve things neatly wouldn't it?" Flemeth says blandly.

"Well it's too late to change now, so, the guide says he won't cause trouble, and I'll have to see that he doesn't. Regardless, I need to get these papers signed, so, if you'll excuse me..."

"Right, right, I need to finish discussing lab time with Flemmie here," Dagna says in a chipper tone.

"Call me that again and the Templar will be the least of your concerns, _dwarf_."

"Fine, fine. _Professor_ Flemm-"

"Okay! Have fun! Bye!" Marian's already backing away, not wanting to be anywhere _near_ these two distinguished professors as they antagonize each other.

She finds the Chargers quickly, her familiarity with the staging camp growing nicely, and spots The Iron Bull in the middle of arm wrestling a well-built blonde with dark stubble. Thankfully, he's also wearing Charger colors, so at least it's a friend of Bull's, not someone else. Like a Templar.

"Need something?" The speaker, a dark skinned human male with a warm smile and dozens of pouches on his vest and trousers, steps down off the truck he had been in. "Stitches, by the way."

_Is that a name or a description?_ "...Charmed," she says, looking him up and down. "I'm looking for Merrill."

"Sorry. My name is Stitches. Most of us have, mmmh, work names," the man says with a smile. "But you were looking for Daisy? She was around a bit ago..." He glances around. "Ah! That's her staff there against those bushes. She slips off to read pretty often."

"Great!" she says with a chipper tone she's rapidly losing the patience to fake. "Then I'll just get out of your hair, pleasure." _Daisy? Does anyone have **normal** names anymore?_ She heads for the bushes, calling out, "Doctor Merrill? Are you over here?"

"One moment," the soft elven voice from earlier calls back. Marian hears a sigh, then a rustling before Merrill stands up. Tapping a book against her leg, she steps around the bush. "Oh. Miss Marian Stress. Did you ever get a chance to breathe?"

"Nope, not yet!" she says, plastering a frankly manic grin on her face. "Seems _someone_ didn't fill out their _paperwork_ in English, so, here I am, making sure you redo it right this time. Fun, right?" She holds out the clipboard and pen, watching carefully.

"I did fill—" Merrill falters, a look of uncertainty crossing her face. "They never said what language it had to be in," she says defensively.

"Cool, cool. Whatever. The point is, it has to be in something they can read, so for everyone's sake can you _please_ fill it out _properly_ so I can get back over there and help ease tension?"

Merrill bites her lip. "Is Old Church Slavonic properly?" she asks tentatively. "Or, ummm, I suppose Old East Slavic was more widely used..."

"Can you read and write English?" asks Marian, point-blank.

Merrill glances to the side, unwilling to respond. Which is answer enough really.

"Okay. Well. You speak English, so, how about I fill it out for you?" she asks, taking the clipboard back. "Question one, are you or have you ever been licensed to practice blood magic?"

"Yes of course," Merrill says with a frown.

"Currently?" At Merrill's nod, she asks, "License number and licensing agency?"

"Ummm. I have a card? It's from Russia," Merrill offers. "I was grandfathered in under the Dalish Tribal Heritage Preservation Act." _Not that it was supposed to cover Blood Magic but it's totally ancient elven magic and I proved it. So there. Shame they put in that rider to prevent anyone else using the Act though._

"What? Let me see that." She takes the offered card, studying it, then scowls at the paper. "Well. Uh. I don't know how to—" _Anything else, and I'd walk her over and ask. But... you can't walk a **blood mage** over to the **Templar** to ask how to record her **blood magic**._ "I'll just jot this down," she says, quickly, doing the best she can. "You were told the rules, right? We emailed a copy, but it was in English. Let me just run down them real fast: this expedition is sponsored by the Kirkwall Chantry, so it's considered an extension of Kirkwall. Since you're not licensed by the City of Kirkwall— and they don't recognize this as a valid license type— you're not going to be allowed to practice any blood magic from now until the time we disband as a group. The Templar will be keeping an eye out to ensure you do not. You may not teach anyone blood magic, or discuss blood magic use or theory with anyone not properly licensed to receive that information— which for the record means me. I'm not licensed."

Merrill stares at Marian. "I'm not signing that," she says flatly. "Blood magic is an integral part of my methodology. And it will almost certainly be necessary for our investigation."

"Okay, well, you can't do blood magic with Templar around, they'll arrest you. So. Take your pick?"

Merrill suddenly looks thoughtful. "When they're not around? I can work with that," she muses.

"Around meaning within a mile or so, which will be basically always."

"Distance is merely an illusion created by our limited perception," the elf says dismissively.

"Okay, no, I'm talking to Dagna, we can't bring you along," says Marian, turning to go.

"You don't have a choice," Merrill says simply. "Cambridge has the land rights to the site. I'm the expert they decided to send, rather understandably given I've been studying a phenomenon very similar to this one for, oh, twenty years or so."

"And that'll be cold comfort when you and I are kidnapped, tortured, and made Tranquil."

Merrill shrugs. "Nothing new about that worry."

"Have you tried, oh, I don't know, _not doing blood magic_? It does wonders for your peace of mind, I hear."

Merrill rolls her eyes. "Oh thank you! That would never have occurred to me ever! Oh wise and clever you are. I'm a Dalish elf, Templar don't need a reason to suspect me. I've dealt with attempts before."

"Hey, I'm one-eighth Dalish myself, on my father's side. I know how it is. But you just have to be better than they expect, be above suspicion."

"No you're not and no you don't," Merrill says bitterly. "Althawr Alhadidiu knows what it's like to be Dalish better than you, Miss Amell, and he has horns." Merrill grabs the clipboard, then dissolves into blue-green smoke. Thirty feet or so behind Marian, near the Charger's truck, she speaks again. "I'll get someone else to help."

Marian scowls, turning around. _I am so! Ugh. Irrational women piss me off._

* * *

That evening, when they're finally underway, when they're spending their first night on the boat, finally travelling to the location where Marian's going to make her big break, where she'll achieve the fame she so longs for, all she can think about is Merrill. "And then she turned into mist and flew off! Can you even imagine? How rude! After all the effort we went through to ensure her 'special gear' could be brought along, since her big fancy kit fills half a truck bed by itself, she goes and insults me!"

"Well, I mean, she's basically her own department and we each got an entire truck so..." Dagna points out absently as she writes in her journal.

"She's _not_ a whole department; she's one spoiled, troublemaking _girl_. I'd be surprised if she's older than me!"

"Same age I think," Dagna agrees. "Yeah, she got her Doctorate about a year ago and she was twenty three so same age now."

Marian grimaces. "The hell did she manage that, anyway?! I thought I was going as fast as humanly possible."

_Well, she's an elf so..._ "Evidently she's self-taught or something? Went to some big lecture at Cambridge and utterly schooled the lecturer, Alan... Bainsbarin? Binsbain? Whatever. Some doctorate having old guy with a couple of books published. But she interrupted him mid-lecture and just took over. Corrected his translations, debunked two of his sources, deconstructed his entire thesis, then proved it with an impromptu demonstration of translocative glyphs with refractive displacement. With chalk, mustard and her shoes." Dagna shrugs. "Evidently she impressed the university's board so they fast-tracked her. Had her write her research up in one spot, reviewed and boom."

"Uuugghh, dammit, do you know how often I've been in classes where the teacher's been dead wrong? I guess that's what it's like for pureblood elves; she makes a scene and gets a doctorate, where I'd have been expelled."

Dagna hums softly, her posture having shifted as Marian ranted to reflect a sudden intensity as she scribbles. "Sure," she mutters. "Probably right, I'm sure."

Marian sighs, shifting in her bunk. _She's gone. Off on some theory or another. Damn._

She pulls out her phone, checking her email; they've brought their own satellite internet with them, so they can upload the data as soon as it's collected. You know. In case they all die. _Not a lot going on, really. I guess I should check the family folder again. Another missive from Beth. Too long, won't read it now. Another letter from mother— blah blah, disappointment, blah blah, ruining the whole family, blah blah, sweet baby Garrett, seven mill— **seven million dollars**?! And gramma and grampy gave him—- WHAT?! _ She sits up, banging her head on the cabin ceiling and curses ripely as she lays back down. _Why did I pick the top bunk?! Maker. They gave him seven more percent of the company?!_

"Think of a neat idea?" Dagna asks curiously.

"No," she growls. "My idiot twin brother just got _our entire inheritance_ all to himself."

"Oh. That sucks." A second later, the humming resumes, Dagna already yanked back into Science.

_That's supposed to be **my** inheritance!_ Marian fumes, nursing a headache. _I'm supposed to come back, invent something amazing, and convince them to appoint me VP of R &D. Work my way up to CTO. Prove to them all I'm an Amell, dammit, just as good as my father. Better, even. What the hell am I doing if they're just going to waste it all on my idiot twin brother?!_


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marian and company set sail for the Antarctic, and the Fade anomaly they've been sent to study. Meanwhile, Krem gets to know his counterparts among the Templar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CN: Vomit, Religion

The travel plan is simple: their gear, jeeps with trailers, tents, dogs, halla, and whatnot have all been loaded onto an ocean liner to cross the perilous, famously sick-making Drake Passage, which will take them into the South Shetlands archipelago. Their destination is called Deception Island; there, they will offload the trucks, and make for Deception Base, only inhabited during the summer months normally except for this unusual midwinter research trip. The base offers them the best chance of survival, assuming the volcano the island was named for doesn't erupt unexpectedly and kill them all. That way they only have to worry about the harsh snow, endless night and subzero temperatures as they make their way through the perilous terrain to the spot Blackwall found.

So, easy as pie.

In the morning, Marian makes her way up to the top deck to vomit over the side of the boat, unaware she has an audience.

"I have ginger, if you need it," calls Morrigan, turning a page in her book. She, of course, never gets sick when travelling. Her mother taught her the trick to it years ago.

Marian doesn't answer right away, given her mouth is a bit full at the moment, but when she does pull back, it's to give a weak smile to the other woman. "Sorry," she mutters. "Rough waters, huh?"

"I'm told this is an especially calm voyage, for this time of year," says Morrigan, turning another page.

_Bitch._ "Is that so? Fascinating."

"Here," a voice says from beside here, a mug of something just warm enough to be faintly steaming held past Marian's shoulder. "Old sailor's cure, at least for the taste in your mouth."

_This better not be rum._ She takes a sip, then makes a face. _Yup. Rum. Fuck. Hot rum. I would not have — ugh._ "Thanks," she manages, with another weak smile. _Not even good rum. What is this, Bacardi?_

"There's salt and pig fat in it," The Iron Bull says cheerfully. "Works like a charm. Try and swish a little with it, that helps."

She stares at the cup, dubiously. _It's basically bacon, right? Alcoholic bacon._ "Wait, you eat pig fat?" she asks, looking up.

"Yeah?"

"Aren't you Qunari?"

The massive, grey-skinned and small horned man widens his eyes dramatically. "Shussh! I'm undercover— I was told there's Templar around," he faux-whispers gravely. Not looking away, he slips a slice of bacon in his mouth, chews, then winks broadly at her.

Marian stares at him, mouth open, for nearly a full minute. Then she vomits again, this time on his shoes.

The man slowly finishes chewing, then glances down. "Yeah, fair."

"Andraste's mercy, I am so sorry," she croaks out, tears of frustration forming in her eyes as she wipes at her mouth with the back of one hand. "I'll get a mop, or, something."

"Far from the worst thing I've had on my boots," he says gently, squatting down so he's at eye level. "Never done much ocean travel before?"

"That's why the Maker invented airplanes," she mutters. "Should only be a few hours until we dock, right?"

"Four and some change," he replies. "If you can stand, brace yourself on the rail and look at the horizon as steady as you can. Helps soothe your brain about the movement. Sip your drink, nice and slow."

She nods, taking a deep breath as she straightens, turning to face the horizon. _Why is he being so nice to me? After my verbal diarrhea yesterday?_ "Sorry we got off on the wrong foot yesterday," she mumbles, before sipping her drink.

"Also not the worst I've had on my, uh, impressions," The Iron Bull says with a chuckle. "You were pretty clearly stressed to Qunandar and back." He moves to stand next to her, flicking his feet towards the ocean. "You always get stuck with all the details like that?"

"Professor Janar is brilliant, but Dagna can't keep details straight in her head. I'm the best TA she's ever had."

"Ah," he says knowingly. "I've met that type before. How often do," _food's a bad topic_ , "do you find her passed out at a desk or work bench?"

"Not so often anymore — I've learned to check up on her before she passes out entirely."

The Iron Bull laughs softly. "Had a job once providing security to one of those types. Mathematician of some kind. Biggest threat to his life was the tub; guy loved the story about the dead guy that figured out surface area math. The Greek one. Anyway, he would spend hours in the tub everyday." He snorts. "With his laptop. Plugged in."

She winces. "Death is a constant threat to our research, but at the very least you could choose a way to kill yourself that _doesn't_ wipe out all your research data."

He roars with laughter, then shakes his head. "And you the practical one! Oh man, the Chargers are going to earn our pay on this job, huh? Between you brainy types not paying attention to your own mortal flesh and the Templar insisting on not using warming runes, Stitches is going to run out of frostbite ointment in the first week."

Marian frowns. "They're objecting to the warming runes? They realize it's the middle of winter down here, right?"

"They're not Tranquil work basically. They're from Kirkwall and thus 'unclean.' I think the Knight-Captain would be fine with them after a blessing or whatever, but Sister Hardass is a zealot." He snorts. "Easy for her to hold fast, she can wear thermals and that heavy fur coat over her robe. They're in armor, the captain in metal armor at that."

"Dammit," she sighs. "Guess I'll have to hope my coat's thick enough on its own."

That gets a sideways glance and a frown. "Everyone else is using them, just not them."

"I'm not going to use something they don't trust," she explains. "It makes me look suspicious."

Now he just stares at her. "So you'd... rather freeze your bits off," he says slowly. "Even though everyone else is using them? And they're perfectly safe?"

"It's not my first choice, no, but it's better than what happened to my idiot twin brother."

"That sounds like the beginning of a story," The Iron Bull prompts her.

"You didn't hear?" asks Marian, raising an eyebrow — though she keeps her eyes firmly on the horizon. "He assaulted some girl, and she had a Templar escort. Didn't even use magic on her, but she accused him of blood magic, and he was taken. Beaten, nearly made Tranquil illegally — it was pure luck the cops showed up just in time to save him. He's still recovering from the beating."

That gets a low whistle. "See that? That's the sort of shit that makes people get all squinty at Templar. Magic's scary shit, but if you can't be trusted to follow your own rules, how can people trust you to protect them from something else?"

"I can't say I approve of their methods," she agrees. "But the only way to stay safe is to be above reproach. _Entirely_ above reproach."

"I've had a lot of luck with a tungsten greataxe," The Iron Bull replies, then looks her over. "Might want to start you out with aluminum. Tiny mage arms and all."

She gives a bitter laugh. "No way. I need to be harmless. Just another academic, no real threat."

"You're a mage," the Qunari says bluntly. "You might not be a danger but you're always a threat."

"Exactly why I have to be perfect. No accidents. No miscasts. No weapons. No demons. As meek and unassuming as I can possibly be, and bending over backward to profess my love for the Maker and His Bride."

"So basically, Tranquil yourself so they don't?"

"If that's what it takes." She shrugs. "I would have expected you to understand how this works. You can't not be a threat either."

"Doesn't mean I have to grovel," he replies with a shrug. "I keep my word, pick my battles and make sure I'm free to have what's important to me."

"Guess they're more afraid of you than me," she says, shrugging. "I can't be big enough to scare them off. Just big enough to _tip_ them off. Better to be small."

"I think you underestimate yourself," The Iron Bull replies. "How you feeling?"

"Better." _Still nauseated_. "Distraction helps."

"That it does," he agrees. "You ever played Wicked Grace?"

"No," she lies. "How does it work?"

"Well, it's sorta like poker but not," he begins, then glances over at Morrigan, who had gone back to her book. "You interested?"

"Not particularly," says Morrigan, turning another page.

"Suit yourself," he replies cheerfully. "Feel free to change your mind," he adds. "You hang here, we'll play on the deck. Little chilly but the fresh air is good for those sluggards." _And seasickness gets worse if you can't see the horizon._

Ten minutes later, the Chargers have brought up a folding table, chairs and a music player. They also brought up a box of heating runes that they place around the chairs without comment. Not all of the Chargers are interested in playing, but most of them are. And they have an extra in the form of a pretty elf with a doctorate. Merrill bows out of playing, explaining she's never played any sort of card game, but wants to watch. "Plus it's nicer to read with sunlight," she adds, taking up a perch on a nearby supply crate where she can see the game easily.

"...sure," says Marian, still feeling a little awkward about the whole paperwork thing. "A-anyway, so, how do you play this? You said it's like poker? That's... Aces high, right?"

"Maybe we should play a few hands free," The Iron Bull says with a cough. "Just to warm up and show you the basics." Rocky and Skinner groan, clearly displeased with such mercy, but don't make much more protest than that to the idea.

"No, no, I can handle it. I'll just have to learn real fast and win back what I lose, right?" she asks, with a sheepish grin.

"You heard the Lady," Skinner says rapidly, hands flashing as she shuffles the deck with practiced movements. "Let's get to playing. Standard European rules, no wilds, min bet is a five dollars, chores are standard price 'cept for latrine-ing which is doubled because the ground is fuck frozen." She deals out as she rattles this all off.

Leaning over, The Iron Bull hands her a well-folded and creased slip of paper. "Price sheet for chores. You can trade them for cash to me afterwards, if you win any," he whispers.

Marian nods, studying the list as though desperately memorizing it. "Okay. Walk me through how a hand works?"

She listens intently as Bull explains, asking clarifying questions that make it clear she kind of grasps the rules but doesn't quite get the strategy of it yet. She studies her cards intently before deciding which ones to discard, with a rueful laugh as though she doesn't quite know what she's doing. She gets lucky; she gets dealt a good hand, wins a little. The next round she loses it all, having mixed up which cards trump which; the round after, however, she wins a bit more, and the hand after that, she bluffs her way to a big take.

"Beginner's luck is a thing," the boss of the Chargers reminds Skinner, who is scowling darkly at the much depleted stack of chips in front of her. "Should have let her burn most of it off with a few practice hands but noooo."

"I think I've got the hang of it now," she says brightly. "Shall we play another hand?"

"Luck doesn't last," Rocky counters. "Let's keep dealing." The next five rounds go by without any big pots, then Grim manages to take The Iron Bull after a one-on-one match for the biggest pot so far. A few more rounds later and Marian has quietly amassed more than her fair share of chips. The comes the eleventh hand of the afternoon...

"That was very well done," Merrill comments into the silence, her voice the only noise aside from the sound of Marian scooping her heap of chips and papers up. "You judged it perfectly, Althawr Alhadidiu had just caught on that you were faking being a novice. He wouldn't have been so easily bluffed next hand."

"You know, I really don't mind if you just want to call me Bull," the qunari mentions, though he smiles a little at her naming him properly. _Took her about ten minutes to get it down but damn if she doesn't say it just right._

"Yes, well, that's where I cash out for the day. Lovely playing with you gentlemen," says Marian, unable to keep the wicked grin off her face.

"Wait, what?" Skinner demands, standing.

"What do you mean, faking?" Rocky adds.

"Chargers, we just got conned," Bull replies blandly, shaking his head.

"What, by little old me?" asks Marian, still grinning. "Nonsense. You're big, rough, experienced boys. I'm sure you could spot a card shark a kilometer away."

"Three hundred and sixty eight dollars worth of conned," Merrill notes after a moment's thought. "Plus another seventy-five in chores."

Skinner scoffs and shoves away from the table, muttering in elven. Grim just grunts, shaking his head; he didn't say a word the entire game, so that doesn't indicate much.

"It's not much, but it's a good start," she agrees. "I'll need the cash to set up my lab when we're done here."

"That was rude," Merrill says, frowning at the insults used. "Especially as she was planning to win a bunch from you."

"Skinner's a prickly sort," Bull says with a wince. "And not a fan of the Rich and Famous."

"Rich? Me?" the human mage scoffs.

Rocky snorts back at her— he's rather good at it. "Think we didn't do our homework, Lady Amell of the Kirkwall Amell clan? Your family could have paid for this entire trip thrice over and not noticed the hit to their accounts."

"But they didn't," Merrill observes softly.

"My family, sure," she corrects. "I'm the black sheep. No money for me. In fact, my brother just got both our inheritance handed to him while I got a lecture about how I'm wasting my life going on this trip."

Merrill's eyes widen and she sits up a little. _She— the black sheep? Weird saying but I think I understand from context. She's been passed over._

"That's rough," Bull says with a wince. "Guess they're not supportive of you wanting to having a career?"

"You could say that," she agrees.

Rocky grunts knowingly. "Breeding stock?" The dwarf turns his head to spit over the side of the ship. "Humans and dwarves are all the same when they have enough money and power."

"Eh, there are some upsides to having professionals arrange all that shit," Bull puts in. "'course, in your cases, I doubt they're professionals. So."

"I just don't understand how my idiot brother nearly flunks out of school, gets arrested by Templar, and still ends up the golden child, my father's heir apparent. How the hell? I'm working my tail off, but since I'm not home making doe eyes at the right donors, I'm nothing to them."

"Have you asked them?" Merrill asks curiously.

"That's not likely to go well. Like I said, I'm the black sheep."

"Can you get blacker?" She frowns, then adds, "your, umm, wool, I mean?"

"Yeah," she admits. "Honestly I just don't want to hear it. My family is small doses and I've used up my quota for the month."

"That's a shame," Merrill says softly, and Marian can't detect anything but sincerity and sympathy in the elf's voice.

"Not really," she says firmly. "It'd be a shame if I still wanted anything to do with them."

"That's worse," she replies simply. "Family should be worth wanting."

"Is yours?"

Merrill looks unbearably sad for a moment, then nods tightly. "Yes. They're worth everything I have to give." Blinking a few times, she looks back at her book, though she doesn't seem to be reading.

"Good for you," says Marian, her voice tight. "My future's worth any amount of shitty families. I won't spend the rest of my life a slave to their whims. I'm going to be great someday, and they'll wish they'd kept me."

"Good to have goals," Bull says with a shrug. "Sounds lonely though."

_She's almost like me but reversed._ Merrill laughs silently, shaking her head as she stares at her book. _Like a mirror twin?_

"Who has time to be lonely? I have an expedition to run," says Marian, with a bitter laugh.

* * *

Cremisius Aclassi — Krem to his friends — shuffles the deck of cards again, aimlessly, as he sits on the deck of the ship. The game's long over; now he's just shuffling cards to keep his hands busy, to keep out of trouble. _This is always the worst part, the shipping out. Nothing to do, nothing to look at, just water as far as the eye can see._

It had been weird being back in Tevinter, even briefly. Everything had been familiar, as if remembering a dream; the street signs, the architecture, the food. He'd never expected to go back when he'd left; he'd had to keep his head down, get to the boat without dawdling. _Shame I didn't get a chance to enjoy it_ , he thinks now, _but I'd probably be arrested if I was recognized. They don't look kindly on deserters._

There's footsteps behind him, then someone rests a beer bottle on his shoulder. "Interested in a few hands? I have twenty minutes to kill," a male voice with a mostly buried Spanish accent says. Stitches, once known as Matias Zomora, flashes a grin as he takes a seat next to Krem, a bottle of his own in his hand. Born of a Moorish father and a Spanish mother, the once promising medical student had ended up with the Chargers after a 'misfiling mistake' in his student loans had forced him to drop out of school. The fact that this gave the top slot for his year to the son of the bank's CEO was surely just chance.

Krem laughs. "Still? After being cleaned out once today? You're insatiable." Still, he doesn't say no, dealing out the cards easily.

"What can I say? Eventually I have to be luckier than you're skilled at cheating," Stitches says with a laugh. "Besides, you're at least a known threat, unlike Little Miss Cardshark. You looked bored."

Krem smirks, but doesn't deny it, as he picks up his hand, skimming over the suits on his cards. _Not bad. Not great, but not bad_. "She's good, I'll give her that. I sure believed her routine."

"Mmmh," Stitches agrees absently as he studies his cards. _Two pair on the first deal? Either my luck is shining or Krem is fucking with me_. "Anyway, if you're not doing anything, you care to join me? The Sister escort is a nurse and medic. We got to talking shop a bit in the ship infirmary— one of the support staff cut his arm, nothing serious— and she mentioned she's holding a sermon at noon."

"A sermon, huh?" says Krem, shrugging a shoulder. He's nominally Andrastaen, but he's far from Catholic; Tevinter Orthodox holds itself to be the one true way of worshipping the Maker, but it contains several distinct differences to the mainstream Catholic denomination and some of the Protestant denominations in Europe. "Kirkwall's Catholic, right?" he asks, discarding two of his cards.

"Some sure. Most of the richest are anyway. I mean, they have a Templar outpost there," Stitches confirms.

"Right, that's what I meant — the Sister and them are from Kirkwall, and it's Catholic." Krem shrugs at his new cards, secretly pleased. _There's a winning hand._ "She tell you what she's preaching on?"

"Just something light, invoking the Maker's blessing on the expedition," Stitches assures Krem.

Krem gives a nod. _No sense letting her know I'm not one of the faithful anymore,_ he reasons. _It's bad for business. I'm sure the Chief won't mind my rubbing elbows with our charges._ "Sure, count me in," he says, spreading his hand across the table.

And so, a few minutes before noon, the pair (fourteen bucks lighter for poor Stitches) head to the galley, where the Sister is quietly speaking to the Knight-Commander. It doesn't seem significant, given the faint smiles both are wearing. The other Templar and a few of the support staff are finding their seats amidst low murmurs of conversation. "Prefer somewhere in the back?" he asks Krem softly.

_Not much back among half a dozen Templar,_ he reasons, but as they meander to the back of the rows of benches in the ship's little chapel, he's surprised to see more faces trickle in. _Blackwall makes sense. Dennet and Adan, half the support staff — the other half, Wu and Yang, are dwarven, so that makes sense. Two of the mages — Kirk and Briggs, I think their names are. Not a bad turnout._

The Sister and the Knight-Commander give it a few more minutes, until it's about five past, then both move to the front of the room, such as it is. Almost instantly every Templar falls not just silent but damn near to attention despite being seated. Everyone else goes quiet after a few seconds as they all catch on. Offering a warm smile, the Sister lifts her hands, palms up, and bows her head slightly as Greagoir clears his throat. "Attention please!" he calls out perfunctory, given the quiet. "Lady Roberts— beg pardon— Sister Roberts has the floor."

She gives him a somewhat exasperated look, clearing not seeing the need for him to have either introduced her or opened the floor in that way. She doesn't seem annoyed really, or at least she hides it well. Shaking her head slightly, she steps forward. "Welcome! Thank you Knight-Commander Greagoir for that somewhat formal introduction. And thank you all for attending on such short notice. It warms the soul to know that I travel among so many friends and fellows. I'm afraid I am more accustomed to _listening_ to sermons, not giving them, so I ask your forgiveness for what will likely be some trite sounding speechmaking and reciting of the Chant. It comes from the heart, even if it is not spoken with a skilled tongue."

Krem nods to himself, listening. _Not bad. I can appreciate the humility._

"Then, if I may, I shall begin with some sections from the Canticle of Trials. I think it at least somewhat fitting, given our intentions." She smiles again, then clears her throat before reciting the following lines from memory in a clear and passionate voice.

_"Maker, though the darkness comes upon me,_   
_I shall embrace the Light. I shall weather the storm._   
_I shall endure._   
_What you have created, no one can tear asunder._

"Much of Trials speaks of war and combat. It speaks of arrows and armies, bloodshed and death. But there is deeper meaning in that Canticle. The world of our ancestors was one of violence and warfare. Again and again, mortals lost their lives, for reasons both holy and worldly. Thankfully, we live in a gentler time. But still there are Trials. Still there is darkness. It comes not in armies, twisted monsters and other obvious things. Today, the darkness is more as shadows. The temptation to seek wealth over the wellbeing of our fellows. The temptation to indulge in sloth instead of working for His glory. The frustrations of simple failure, of mistakes both great and small. All of these are Trials as well. And the Maker stand behind you, ready to offer His Glory to any that ask for His help. With Faith comes a Light that can help you overcome any darkness."

The rest of the sermon goes much the same, with the Sister reading a few verses of the Chant, then attempting to explain how it applies to the modern world. Often, she uses an example that could very easily apply to their upcoming expedition, though she never uses anyone's names or even roles. As he listens, Krem finds himself fidgeting, dissatisfied. It's not that the Chant is bad, exactly, but her readings seem surface-level, her interpretations simplistic. _She's not my Sister_ , he decides, chewing his lip thoughtfully. _I guess the closest thing I have anymore is the Chief_. The thought of the seven-foot qunari in chantry robes almost makes him laugh aloud, though he's careful to stay silent, pretending to listen.

After the sermon is over, the Sister makes her way through the crowd to have a few words with each of them. She skips the Templar, talking to the others first; possibly out of respect for their time, or possibly because she knows the Templar won't run off but the others might. Soon enough, she's at Krem's table. "Mister, ah, Stitches, I'm glad you made it. And brought a friend as well."

"Yes ma'am," he replies, bowing his head briefly before making introductions. "This is Cremisius, one of my fellow Chargers."

"Krem," the man says, holding out a hand to shake. "Lovely sermon," he adds.

"You're very kind," she replies with a soft laugh. "My talents are in administration and trauma care, not speechcraft. I was chosen for this because I've done missionary work in the roughs before, so they know I won't wilt if I have to sleep in a tent or go a week without a shower."

"Have you?" asks Krem, trying to sound interested. _Crap. She's not going to like me one bit. Back in the Sunday school supply closet I go, I guess._

"Mmmh. Mostly in the Caribbean: Costa Rica, Santa Domingo and Honduras mostly. And Kirkwall, of course, but any outings there were weekend trips at most, hardly a real hardship. But I've also done a tour in Alaska, another point in my favor for being assigned to this trip."

"...aren't those places all Catholic? How do you do missionary work when everyone's already Andrastean?" Krem can't help but ask.

"Not all!" She leans against the table, seemingly pleased by the question. "Given the mixed nature of the Caribbean, there are many that live here— there, I suppose I should say now— that follow other creeds. My trips to Honduras were mostly spent speaking to the descendants of slaves who still worshiped the primitive nature 'gods' of their ancestors. Very few people have even heard of them but they somehow continue on."

Krem frowns a bit. "I guess I always understood missionary work to be bringing the Good News to those who hadn't heard it before. Tribes that haven't been contacted and whatnot. I never thought about missions to places with their own Templar contingents."

Sister Roberts makes a little bit of a face, then leans in. "It's been observed that many outside the faith find Templar, shall we say, intimidating? Sisters seem to have much more success in the, ah, soft sell, if you will. I normally work with Sister Layla, who takes the lead in actually speaking with the natives while I organize the trip and provide support. My medical background is also very valuable, as we're often far from hospitals."

_Descendants of slaves aren't natives. The real natives on the islands were wiped out by colonizers,_ Krem thinks, but doesn't say. "That does sound handy. Especially for this trip." _Let's get back on track here._

"Indeed," she replies. "Your friend Stitches has impressive skills but only two hands. Should disaster find us, having two medics will be a gift from the Maker's love."

"Well, I'm glad you decided to tag along, then." Krem smiles, moving to get up.

"Of course," she replies, stepping back to give him space. "May the Maker keep you safe."


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marian and her research expedition have reached their destination: the Antarctic. What phenomenon awaits them to be studied?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Religion

Deception Station turns out to be a handful of low, long buildings, painted — for some reason — fire-engine red. The hike from port isn't far; the island is a tourist destination during the summer months, when it's warmer than negative ten degrees Celsius and thus worth visiting. It's so exceedingly unlikely that anything truly unknown would be found here, right up until it was.

The site is two hour's hike out from the station, which is highly inconvenient; they've brought tents for overnight study of the phenomenon, and trucks for transporting gear to and from the boat. Blackwall discovered the site while hiking a difficult trail, but he has suspicions that the area affected is large enough that halla with a sledge can transport equipment to the area in question via a longer route, taking most of the day. Still, it's only day one, and that means they have to stow their gear, set up the satellite receiver for the internet, claim their bunks, and tend to the animals. All in complete darkness, of course, as it's the middle of winter and there's no light to be had most days.

Day two, nothing can stop the academic types from hiking to the site. And so, while the Chargers go hunting for fresh game to augment their supplies, Blackwall leads Flemeth, Morrigan, Dagna, Marian, and the rest of the academics on the hike. Flemeth has brought two other graduate students, a pair of best friends named Abernath Kirk and Veness Briggs, who have been inseparable the entire trip out; Dagna has brought her other grad student, a tranquil named Clemence Hancock who frankly creeps everyone out, and the new intern, an elf named Lysas who is an undergrad student trying to make a few extra bucks to pay for his textbooks. And finally, Merrill has just brought herself and a sizable amount of equipment, keeping to the rear and staring around at the wildlife in wonder the whole hike.

They crest a hill and find the site: a misty, ice-covered bump in the bottom of a valley, forming a snow-globe-esque shell around the phemonenon. A recent earthquake cracked a bit of it; they can see light pouring out, the whole area more visible than the darkness ought to let it be. The surrounding area is all icy tundra, but through the crack, which glows faintly green like the air of the Fade, they can see living plants: a cornucopia of green, ferns and conifers that look subtly wrong, different than the trees they spotted on the way in. All but Clemence and Dagna can feel the hum and crackle of magic in the air; in the distance, over the trees, they can spy a shimmer of pure green light, an actual rift in the Veil.

Marian grabs the back of Dagna's shirt, yanking her back from hiking any further as she stares down at the trees. "This is amazing," she whispers. "Is that the Fade? Just... an open rift several kilometers across?"

"This isn't just a rift— it's a local intrusion of Fade magic into the real world," says Morrigan, leaning on her staff. "Can you hear the call? It's reaching for us even here, where we stand. Seeking a way in."

Merrill continues past most of the group, pausing just a the lip. Eyes closed, she reaches her hand out slowly. "Hello," she murmurs in elven.

Dagna had looked puzzled at suddenly stopping, then glances up at Marian. "What's going on?" she whispers. "What can you sense?" She's already got her digital notepad out, ready to write.

"It feels..."

Marian closes her eyes, shivering a little, a motion that has nothing to do with the cold. Just at the edge of her consciousness, she begins to hear whispers, little bits of speech impossible to make out; she blots them out, turning her attention to the feeling, to her body and not her mind. "It feels electric. Comfortably so, like the little tingles you get playing with static, not at all deadly. Fun, innocent, playful. It wants me," she adds, taking a step forward. "It feels like Christmas. Like I want to lay down and have a nap right under the tree, smells like cinnamon and ginger and ozone, all the good smells, and I could just lay right down in it and have a nap." She takes another step forward, right into Blackwell's outstretched arm.

"I wouldn't," the ex-Warden says kindly. "It sounds like the kind of nap you don't wake up from."

Lysas frowns a little as he inches towards where Marian is. "I don't feel anything but a buzz," he says. "Are you sure you're not just imagining all that?"

Flemeth gives a snort as she turns from her own study to look at Marian. "A bit poetic but not inaccurate. You can feel the temptations of the Fade rather well for one so young. It usually takes much longer for someone to learn that sort of wisdom." Before Marian can feel too proud of herself, she adds, "or grow that desperate."

"She's right though— there's a yearning in the Fade here," Merrill agrees absently, eyes still closed as feels for the border.

"Wisdom? You are in a generous mood today, Mother," says Morrigan, frowning. "It is clearly the latter. Wisdom comes from mastery as well as understanding."

"How old do you have to be to get mastery?" Merrill asks curiously, turning her head and peeking with one eye.

"It is a matter of skill, not mere age. One who hears the call and immediately succumbs is not a master, but simply prey. Honestly, I do not understand what the Arcana department was thinking, to send one blind to the Fade and one begging to be tempted on such an important expedition."

"Presumably it's because they're brilliant," Merrill says with a shrug, turning back to her work. "They've both done something useful since we got here at least."

"Now, now, children, you three can play later," cackles Flemeth. "For now, we should at least try to understand this wonder, hmm?"

"Right," says Marian. "There's room on this ridge, let's spread out and take initial measurements from here. No sense getting closer until we know what we're dealing with."

* * *

The next several hours are spent furiously cataloging everything to do with the phenomenon — how each of them feel being near it, at what range each of them are affected by it, what is visible inside, and the results of several instruments testing the Fade density at a variety of points. They hike back in the dark, reluctant, each of them wanting more time to study the phenomenon. They return first thing in the morning for more tests, this time with a mouse they from Morrigan's supplies as well as one of the Mabari; they are able to determine that no harm comes to the animals from crossing the barrier, and Morrigan transforms her shape to walk in as a cat, reporting no ill effects whatsoever. Finally, they send in Clemence, then Dagna, then finally Merrill; each report no ill effect, though Merrill reports an intensification of the feelings of being in the Fade.

The next day, they take their measurements inside the valley, and begin to interact with the things inside. It's eerie, crossing the border; it's a border between eternal night and eternal day, a border between frozen winter and warm summer. They find they cannot break off leaves of the plants, though they can push them a little; they find frozen animals— which they cannot budge at all— including unknown moths frozen in midair. "Time magic is like that," assures Merrill. "The stronger the memories, the more something is affected." They have little choice but to believe her.

An experiment is proposed: the first overnight in the time bubble, which Merrill and Marian both eagerly volunteer for. Knight-Captain Gregoir at first strongly objects, but finally agrees, so long as they're accompanied by a Templar. "After all, you are going to be strongly influenced by the Fade. It is possible one or both of you will become an Abomination."

Knight-Corporal Drass doesn't exactly volunteer for this duty, but he knows which way the wind is blowing when his commander looks at him. Therefore, the three of them pack backpacks of food, one tent, two sleeping bags, and a Mabari to take with them on the overnight expedition.

As they walk, Drass a little ways behind holding the Mabari's leash, Marian keeps shooting glances to Merrill. _She's my age_ , she keeps reminding herself, but the expression on the girl's face makes her seem younger. _She's enjoying this. Unabashedly enjoying being here, being in this moment_. They've had to remove their coats for the hike, given how much warmer it is inside the Fade bubble; Marian can't help but envy Merrill's bright-colored dress, the butterfly clips in her hair. _I can't stop worrying about what will happen to us next, what we can do to prove ourselves, but she just... enjoys this._ "I never got the chance to thank you," she begins, to break the silence. _It's eerie, being in a forest and not hearing birds, insects, anything living._

_It's so pretty here. Like a picture. Which is also a little sad. It's pretty but lonely— like Marian really. Still, she's nice sometimes, like when she pet Fluffykins. Poor thing... halla have such dignity, he deserves a weightier name. Like Sir Fluffykins. I wonder if sound carries normally here? Air has the least memory of all known things save fire and electricity. Is memory the right word? English is so clunky. Lensalla? I'm not sure how to translate that though... Anyway, the air is probably a little frozen but would it be enough to be detect—_ Merrill breaks off her speculation to look over at Marian. "Thank me?" she asks, baffled.

"You stood up to Morrigan for me," clarifies Marian, looking away from the elf. "Thank you. I know you probably don't like me much, but..."

"You didn't make a good first impression, no," Merrill admits honestly. "But I don't hold grudges well. It's okay."

She walks in silence for a few moments before adding, "I am part-Elven, you know."

"Okay?" Merrill replies, giving her a 'so what?' sort of look.

"You said I wasn't. As you were storming off. But I am." Saying it aloud, it feels petty, insignificant; she blushes, just a touch.

"Ah." She shrugs a little. "There's a difference, between being an elf and having an elven ancestor."

"I never said I was pureblood. But I wouldn't expect you to understand how it feels to have your own grandparents refer to your father as 'that elf', as if he has to earn the privilege of a name."

"That's fair," Merrill allows. "I don't have grandparents. Or a father. I mean, I'm sure I did but I never knew any of them. I was given to the Sabrae Clan when I was a toddler."

"Then what was all that before, about your family being worth it?" Marian sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose. _Honestly, this is the most exasperating woman I've ever met..._

"My Clan is my family," Merrill explains. "I never really fit in all that well, though I managed to make a few friends. But Keeper Marethari has always been kind and caring to me. And the others, umm." She offers a smile, though it looks a little brittle. "It's a hard life, being nomadic in Siberia. Taking in another extra mouth, one so young and without blood ties to any— that's a big thing to ask. But if I can restore—" She breaks off. "I just need to show them that I was worth the cost."

Marian's mouth twists, and she urges herself to shut up, not to speak, but she can't stop the words in time: "No child has to repay their upbringing. It's a gift, not a loan. Anyone who makes you feel indebted to them for raising you isn't worth the title 'parent'."

"I'm not a parent," Merrill says softly, eyes sad. "They don't want me to— to do this." _Or to come back. Ever_. "This is a quest I set myself." She glances at Marian, expression showing a dawning understanding.

"My children are never going to feel that way. They won't be unwanted, they won't feel indebted to me. They'll know I had them because I _wanted_ them, and I made a promise to love and protect them forever. That I'm a Maker-blessed hero, a genius, and I chose to have children because that was the next accomplishment I felt worth my talents. No more and no less." Marian keeps her gaze forward, fighting the pricks of tears at her eyes.

Merrill speeds up so she's a little ahead of Marian, then turns and pulls Marian into a hug. Marian is shocked—so much so, she doesn't hug back. She tenses, arms by her side, eyes opening wide. _What...??_ Merrill rests her head next to Marian's, her breathing slow and even. Content. She's warm and soft, if a bit lankly, and has the faint scent of leather and some kind of flower. She doesn't say anything, just hums softly, a pleased and gentle sound.

Marian swallows, then swallows again. _I was never a hugger,_ she thinks, but swallow three comes with tears sliding down her cheeks. _Maybe I should make an effort?_ Slowly, hesitantly, she reaches up to embrace Merrill. "I... thank you?"

"You're very welcome," Merrill murmurs. "And thank you."

"For... what, exactly?"

"For hugging back."

Marian pulls back, then, overwhelmed by this much intimacy. She wipes at her eyes with the heel of her hand, swallowing again. "Right. We should keep going."

Merrill doesn't resist at all, letting her step back. "Of course. Research is important too," she agrees, eyes misty as well. "Have you noticed any variance in sound since we entered the Zone?"

"...You mean how it's deadly quiet, but our voices sound perfectly fine?" she asks, as she begins walking again. "Footsteps, too. I scuffed my boot on some stone a bit ago and heard that, but the twigs I step on don't break."

"Mmmmh," Merrill says. "I'm wondering if the air is just a tinny winny bit frozen too." A pause. "What?"

"...Teeny weeny. You want the long 'e' sound," Marian settles on, deciding that's the most important correction here.

"Oh." Merrill blushes a little. "Thank you. Umm. If I... do that sort of thing, please do correct me," she requests in a small voice, looking embarrassed. "I'm still struggling with English, it's harder to learn than Daloun," she grumbles. "Anyway. I was wondering if maybe we could measure the degree of temporal stasis by measuring the delay in sound through various substance."

They resume walking, Merrill explaining her idea. Marian grasps it quickly, of course, and immediately begins to refine and figure out practicalities. The elf is a touch bemused by how she takes over, but doesn't seem offended. In truth, she seems a little awed at Marian's shear competence— and flattered that her idea is being taken so seriously. After nearly twenty minutes, Merrill lets out a gasp, her attention wrested from their conversation by something she spots off to the side of the path.

Marian turns, rapidly, and stops dead, staring between the trees at the creature frozen there, a few feet away. She's struck with the unprofessional urge to reach out and stroke it, just to know what it feels like. A reptile? An armadillo? A snake? She resists, but barely— being the only living person to have touched a _dinosaur_ , even briefly, is a temptation almost too great to resist. "That's... an anklyosaurus?" she whispers, staring at the wedge head, the leaves poking out from its mouth, the clubbed tail.

Merrill has less discipline, almost skipping over to kneel next to the frozen repetile. "It's a— a— I don't know the words for it! A lesser cousin of the drugiun!" Reaching out, she runs her hand along it's jaw. "Mythal'enaste, Marian, come over here!"

That's all the invitation she needs. "A dinosaur, Merrill. It's a dinosaur." She rushes over, reaching up to stroke its hide, peer at the tail. "This is a bit of the, what, Jurassic period?"

"Should you be touching that?" asks Drass, from behind them.

"I have no idea!" Merrill says with a bubbling laugh. "I mean about the age. Touching it is fine— it's frozen outside the winds of history. The only way it could hurt us is if we tripped and fell on it." Looking back at Marian, she repeats, "dinosore?"

"Dinosaur," she repeats slowly. "What's the word in Elven?"

"Umm. Da'druivalas. Weaker, lesser cousins of the— the umm— Big, wings, scales, breathe magic?"

"Dragons," she supplies. "But that's not proven, is it? Only speculation?"

"Genetics testing breaks down a bit when you try to use it on dragons," Merrill admits with a shrug. "But the results don't rule it out and our most ancient legends support it— I know of at least three, umm, not stories... Ah. Word, no, spoken word histories set as stories that tell of how dragons begat lesser versions of themselves, with muted magic and baser intelligence."

"But this is nothing like a dragon," Marian argues. "Look at this magnificent beast, and tell me it's anything like the sky-lords!"

"Is this truly what's important?" asks Drass, again. "We have some distance you wanted to cover before evening, such as it is."

Merrill slowly twists to face the Templar, expression flat and unamused. "Do you realize that this creature is older than recorded history? Than every recorded history combined? This creatures dates this temporal pocket as being tens of— what comes after thousands? Ten of thousands thousands of years old!"

" _Millions_ ," Marian adds, and she's not so much correcting as adding emphasis.

"Yes, and it's a very interesting specimen," he drawls. "Quite preserved. But it's not that important."

"Preserved?" asks Marian, aghast. "You don't understand— this is probably _alive_!"

"I could probably free it," Merrill muses, looking back the dinosaur. Her head tilts and she starts muttering to herself in elven.

"Let's stand a little further back first," Marian says quickly, grabbing for Merrill's elbow.

"Wait, that's _alive_?!" gasps Drass, paling in horror. "Do not wake that beast!"

"I could probably—" Merrill pauses, remembering her audience. And their stupid rules. "Put it to sleep. Sleep sleep, not time-locked."

"We need at _least_ four others to fight that if it gets loose," says Drass, warily.

"He's right," Marian sighs. "We'll come back. Okay?"

"...fine. But if we find a small one," she says firmly, already planning what of her stuff she'd be willing to dump to make room in her personal allotment. Which is basically 'anything but her mirror, staff and necklace.'

The walk takes on a mystical quality after that — as if walking through a time bubble made of Fade wasn't mystical enough. Now that they know what they're seeing, every insect, every fern, every cone takes on a new importance. Several times they stop to sketch things, or pick up fallen leaves and cones as samples. Once or twice more they find others, now that they're looking: prehistoric mammals, and once a roosting pteredon pair on a nest that proves to be empty when Merrill scales the tree to check.

The sun never sets inside the bubble; the explorers do grow tired, however, and they stop to make camp when their legs struggle against the weight of time-locked samples in their bags. Merrill shows Marian how to disenchant them, freeing them from the stasis; Marian doesn't quite get the hang of it, but she promises to keep practicing in the morning. Drass shows his own method, brute-force disruption of the magic in the leaves, but when one disintegrates they beg him to stop, just in case he damages any more samples.

They can't start a fire; notebook paper burns, but the dead leaves and twigs they pick up do not. So they eat their tinned beans cold, exchanging words for various prehistoric beings back and forth between Common and Elven, until the girls finally turn in to sleep.

"I will keep watch," says Drass, and they both understand somehow that he means he will be watching _them_. After all, they are the only animated beings in this forest, aren't they?

* * *

Krem sits on the floor in Bull's room, legs tucked under him, pretending to read Sun Tsu's _The Art of War_. It's his fourth time trying to read the damn thing, and he'd figured maybe the quiet and solitude of this trip would help him pick his way through it, but no, it's still as impenetrable and boring as ever. So instead, he chats with The Iron Bull as the superior Charger knits.

"When did you pick up knitting, anyway, boss?"

"Hmm? Oh, the knitting. Let's see, that was," there's a slight pause, more a stutter, in his movements before he continues. It's a stutter Krem recognizes, though he doesn't know what painful memory causes it. "About forty years ago, give or take. Good hobby really. Trains the hands, leaves the mind free to think or rest as you need. Plus it's practical. Extra clothes or blankets are useful more often than not." He lifts a needle. "And you can put this through someone's skull if you thrust hard enough."

"Eye seems easier," Krem chimes in. "The Quran doesn't have knitting down as woman's work or anything?"

"Work is decided by skill and training... in theory. But there are a few, ah, let's go with biases. Females are judged to be better at administration and crafting goods, males at, well, killing shit and not dying while doing that. And to be fair, by this point, they're not entirely wrong. Some ten thousand years of carefully controlled breeding creates results." Bull shrugs a little, stilling when he almost loses a stitch. _Out of practice_. "There are trends towards physical attributes by physical sex among kossith, enough to be useful in predicting capability if not a guarantee. Sometimes people don't fit the expected bell graph, but the system has methods of working around that. Mostly it works out." He looks up, summoning up a grin and a joke to lighten the mood. "So yeah, it's woman's work but this isn't work. It's a hobby. Rules are way less strict on hobbies."

Krem blinks. "I thought you Qunari were more tolerant of gender crap than Andrastaens?"

"More accepting of trans," Bull corrects him, lowering his eyes back to his work. Hobby, that is. "That's one of the work arounds I mentioned actually. If a qunari is born with a cock but proves to be a wonder with plants, a natural farmer, there typically four outcomes. One, he gets over it and becomes a watchman on a farm or the like. Something tangential to farming but still a male role. Two, it's determined _she_ was supposed to be a farmer. Three, he gets re-educated into compliance. Or he runs for it. But it works the other way around too. If you're female but look male at first glance despite being a great warrior, you learn to make swords instead or you deal with being male. Everyone fits their role, one way or another."

"I wouldn't have trouble, would I? Since I'm good at fighting," offers Krem, trying to sound light-hearted, theoretical. The idea that, after all this, the Qun could decide he's female after all... it frightens him. For a moment, he's glad he hasn't formally declared his interest in converting. It's easy enough to back out.

"Oh yeah, you'd be picked for soldier for sure," Bull says with a snort.

"Not Ben-hassrath like you?"

"That.." Bull studies Krem for a moment. "That works different," he finally answers.

"A different you can tell me or a secret different?"

"Good thing about it is that no-one would even question it afterwards. You're a soldier, you're a man. Full stop."

"That'd be handy," he admits. "I don't get clocked very often anymore, but it'd be nice to not worry about it. You know. If I were interested in converting."

_Yeah, not really Ben-hassrath material. Too good a person, too honest and sincere._ "Could be," he agrees. "You still get clocked?"

"Now and again. Not often."

"Huh. Can't see it myself."

He grins. "Of course not. You know better."

Bull shrugs a little. "Not really sure why it's hard for others to know better too. People are weird."

"I think it's my face. It's too boyish, too girly. I don't have a strong jaw like you."

Bull squints at Krem for a moment. "Eh, more chiseled than Stitches. Maybe try growing a beard? That's a man thing for humans, right?"

"I can't. It comes out all scraggly." He shrugs. "Looks better clean-shaven."

"Don't they have a lotion or cream for that? Progain I think?

"Maybe," he admits. "I haven't tried it. Maybe after this I will."

"Worth a shot," Bull agrees with a flash of a smile. "Kinda nice, talking about the Qun and such. Not a lot of chances to do that these days," he adds casually.

"Yeah? Well anytime you get homesick, chief, I'm open to listening. You know. In a friendly way."

* * *

_Marian is flying. She can't recall exactly how she got here, but it doesn't matter; a moment ago she was falling, but now she's got the hang of it, racing through the sky. She owns the sky; up here, she can have anything she desires. Nothing seems out of reach. With Merrill at her side, she can't be stopped. She's invincible. She—_

* * *

Marian wakes, banging her head on the low ceiling in her bunk, cursing ripely. "Merrill! Why am I in the guest room?" she asks, crawling out of the bed to head for the kitchen. The bunk-over-desk bed seemed so practical when she bought it, but of course she bangs her head on it every morning, so it had been banished to the guest room long ago.

The smell of omelettes mixes well with Elven spices, chili peppers and something exotic she can't name. "Oh well, wife of mine, I forgive you — but only if you share."

"That depends on what you have to share back," Merrill replies with a merry laugh, echoed by a chorus of giggles. "Come out before a pair of adorable foundlings convince me to give them your share, vhenan!" When Marian finds herself stepping into the warm kitchen, brightly lit with paintings of flowers on the walls, she's greeted not just by the smile of her apron clad wife but by a hug to each leg from their twin children. Doggo the ankylosaurus (Merrill's pet) and Fluffy the triceratops (Marian's pet, but she insists she was drunk when she named it) don't budge from their breakfasts, the terrible gluttons.

"Ann, Len, good morning!" says Marian gleefully, planting a kiss on each twin's cheek. "Are you being good and studying your French? Comment allez-vous?"

"Bien, mama!" they say, in chorus, then pull away giggling.

"As for you, darling, what would you say to a trip to Stockholm? Say, beginning of December?"

Merrill lets out a cry, spinning in place from the stove. " _Again_? Was it your work on the magitek medical scanner or the global communication spell?"

"The former," she laughs. "Though Papa keeps hounding me about the communications spell. It seems he's still trying to figure out some tawdry new trick to keep his phones selling. Can you imagine? Wasting your whole life on _cellphones_?"

Smiling sweetly, Merrill sways her way over to her lover showing curves she didn't have when she was younger. From outside, they can hear the children playing a game with the dinosaurs, laughing and screaming with delight. The elf's smile turns sultry as she wraps her arms around Marian's neck. "Well, it's not like it's any trouble, thanks to the Eluvian network you helped me set-up. So why don't you peel this apron off me so we can celebrate your fourth prize thingie, hmm?"

"Oh, _Merrill_ ," she purrs, leaning in for a kiss.

When she pulls back, they're in bed, giggling, legs twined under the covers, holding hands. "I'm so glad I married you, wife of mine. You're the best lover in the world," purrs Marian, but something just doesn't seem... quite right.

"Wife," Merrill repeats dreamily, tracing a finger along the slope of Marian's breast idly. "Our marriage was the best day of my life. Well, also the day we adopted Velthari and Dagnu. And the day we met. And the day we first kissed, the day we first made love, the day you proposed to me and..." The last few were said slowly, almost hesitantly, and she trails off as she lifts her eyes to met Marian's.

"...Velthari and Dagnu? No, we named them for my family, Ann and Len. Since my brother died early, Beth's a lesbian, and Carver's sterile, so the only grandchildren are mine..." Something's not right about that, either, as Marian speaks.

"No, we named them after Keeper Marethari and your mentor," Merrill reples, frowning. "Because... Did I know your sibling's names?"

"...Yes you do. Garrett, Bethany, and Caro— Carver. Why did I say— no, his name is Carver. Has been for thirty years."

"I... don't remember them?" Merrill says, biting her lip.

"Well, I'm Bethany," a curvy brunette says from the other side of Marian. "I love your house, very posh."

Blinking with confusion, Merrill reaches over to shake the nude woman's hand, who she notes absently is just a little less endowed than her wife.

Marian sits up, eyes wide in horror. "Nope! We're done here!" And, with the sheer force of will only a top-notch mage can have, she breaks the dream, sitting up for real in her sleeping bag in her tent, gasping for breath. "Whatthefuck," she whispers to the night.

"That was... I don't know a word for what that was," Merrill admits from the bedroll beside her. "This place gives weird theneras. Dreams I mean." A pause. "Nice though," she adds in a softer voice. "Confusing, but nice— you woke me up before I could figure out where my brain was going with it."

"You're lucky, then," gasps Marian. "Mine started out nice and ended up with my baby sister naked. And I think I killed my twin? It was bizarre."

A very long pause. "Does your baby sister have brown hair, the name Beth and a black dot just above her right nipple?"

"Yes!" She pauses. "Did you fuck my baby sister?!"

"I think that's where the dream was going," Merrill muses. "But no."

"Okay for the record that is entirely off-limits, forever!"

"I'd rather have sex with you anyway," Merrill replies. Then gulps. "Umm. I mean..."

Marian's throat closes around the words. She takes a deep breath, then another. "I'm— I'm a bisexual lesbian," she says slowly. "I don't find myself romantically attracted to men, though I find them sexually attractive. Are you... a lesbian as well?"

"Umm, evidently? I— I've never really, umm, pursued I guess? Any kind of attraction with a woman but I really, really wanted to kiss you when we were petting that dinosaur together." She swallows thickly, eyes darting everywhere in the tent but towards Marian.

"...Why did you dream about my sister?" she asks slowly.

"I didn't even know I knew you _had_ a sister," Merrill tries to explain. "Wait. I didn't know you had a sister? How did I dream about—" She bolts upright. "Did I have a seer dream? Or did we share a dream? Mind reading? We're half in the Fade, who know how that could affect dreaming!"

"I, um. I dreamed we were... and there were kids? Twins? And two dinosaurs?"

"Fluffy and Doggo," Merrill says in a low, awed whisper. "We adopted two beautiful children and we were—" She blushes prettily, then pouts. "I can't remember the sex," she complains. "Do you?"

She shakes her head. "Just that it was good. I think— maybe we should ask Drass about this. It sounds like a bad sign, doesn't it? Because dreams take place in the Fade?"

"Our dream was bad?" Merrill asks, voice a bit sad. _I thought it was really nice. A bit silly and sappy but nice._

"I mean, not the dream itself, but, if something was trying to hunt us or something?"

"Oh." A small pause. "That... makes sense." Another small pause. "Oh! That's really not good. We should, hrrm," She frowns, looking around. "Where is, uh, what's his name? Ass? I've been thinking him as Prissy Templar but Assy Templar works too." _At least he didn't hear us talking about our dream._

"I think _Drass_ is outside the tent?" she says, slowly. _Should he be? Shouldn't he be checking on us, if we're sitting up and talking? How's he meant to guard us if he..._ "I think we should go check on him," she adds, fear churning in her gut.

Merrill nods quickly, rising from her bedroll. She hesitates, then quickly starts packing up. "Just in case," she explains.

As they slip out from the tent, Drass is sitting with his back to them. He's resting against a rock, his head bowed so his forehead rests against the stone, unmoving and silent in the eternal afternoon.

"Drass?" asks Marian, hesitantly, as she reaches out for his shoulder.

The face that twists around isn't Drass. Isn't even human. The melted slag-face of an Abomination twists in rage and disgust. "Little girl," he sneers, and Marian backs up quickly, putting herself between Merrill and the Abomination.

The thing that once was a human, a person, rises, and rises, and rises; ten feet tall, a melted amalgamation of human-like features, Templar armour and warped, sickly flesh. He lumbers toward her, sneering, lightning crackling over his body. Merrill lets out a soft gasp, then reaches out to grab Marian's arm. There's a blur, the feeling of intense cold and darkness, then they're twenty yards away from the abomination, half hidden by the jungle. Handy, though from the deep, heaving breaths Merrill is taking, teleporting two people that far with no preperation isn't easy.

"Run," Marian whispers, "Hurry. The dog— shit, where's the dog? Nevermind, no time, go!"

Merrill lets out a whine, then gestures with her staff at them both. Marian can feel a weave of magic envelope them both and the world slows, just a little, though the human is knowledgeable enough to realize it's them that've sped up. "No good with combat magic really," the elf gasps out as she starts to back away. "Let's go!"

"Don't worry, I am," Marian assures her. _Fuck, left my staff. Oh well, no time now._ She starts creeping after Merrill, but stops a moment later when the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. _What—_

That's all the warning she gets. It's enough. She turns, halfway, and stretches out her hand, her fingertips just brushing the lightning bolt arcing its way toward Merrill. _Fuck, this will hurt_ , she thinks, bracing just a bit as the bolt arcs its way into her, up her arm, seeking her heart. She breathes out, just a little, her ironclad control bearing down in the heartbeat's window to redirect it around, through her bones, out her other arm, back toward the abomination. Lightning's an old friend to Marian, not something she should fear; for a moment, she _is_ the lightning, brilliant and beautiful, too bright even in the sunlight as her hair stands on end in a brilliant flash. Then it's gone, aimed for the rock the abomination was leaning against; demons aren't usually weak to the thing they cast, but she'd noted the iron content in it, directs the electricity to magnetize the rock as it passes through to the earth it seeks.

Then the pain kicks in and she gasps, doubling over, heart pounding arrhythmically.

Merrill hadn't noticed the same warning Marian had— her focus is in the spirit, specifically magics directly related to travel, time and the Fade itself. The shrieking crackle of lightning, however, is pretty damn hard to miss. She stares not at the bolt that had sought to claim her life, but at the awe-inspiring battle maiden that saved her. She's glorious. The outraged roar from the abomination grabs her attention finally, tearing her eyes to—

"Did you turn that rock into a— a— metal pulling metal?" she asks, stunned. "With a redirected lightning— right, running!" Grabbing Marian's hand (her skin feels like it's sun-warmed and tingles) she pulls her along. A few steps later, she twists to thrust her staff at Marian. "Better— in your— hands," she gasps.

But Marian pulls free, gasping for breath. "No. Can't— can't leave him," she gasps. "Bag. Hatchet?"

"Leave— him? Nymeria?" Merrill asks, also stopping. _I thought she didn't care about the doggo?_ "Hatchet?" she repeats after a beat, glancing at the travel bag on her hip.

Marian shakes her head. "The backpack," she corrects, then scowls. _I didn't grab it. Great._ "Wait here."

She doubles back then, grabbing the backpack and yanking her hatchet out of it rapidly. As the abomination struggles to get out of the armour that's pinning him down against the rock, she gives a shout and swings for his neck. A spray of blood douses her. The figure writes, snarling, struggling to get loose. She swings again, then a third time before he lies still.

Merrill stares, eyes wide, then her expression firms. Striding forward, she runs her hand across the top of her staff. The crystal focus is evidently not just for magical utility, as the hand she holds up after is bleeding lightly. The elf begins to chant what Marian recognizes as a spirit ward, though she's never heard this particular one. With the staff, Merrill gestures for the other mage to move away from the corpse. When Marian does so, the elf finishes, flicking some blood at the dead abomination. It glows, then twists as if underwater before returning to its normal appearance and size. "There," she pants afterwards. "That should— hold."

Marian looks back, aghast. "...you could have cured him?" she asks, in a horrified whisper.

"What?" Merrill shakes her head rapidly. "Not, umm, non-lethally. That just— that will stop anything from using his corpse for a few days. It helps the living resist, but only if they resist. If you're invite them in— or get tricked or whatever— then it's useless." She winces. "And some demons take that sort of ward as a trial. Challenge I mean."

The human's shoulders slump, and she looks back at the corpse. "Oh. Okay." She pants for a moment, then adds, in a distant tone, "That's the first time I've ever killed someone. I've killed someone now. I'm a killer."

"No!" Merrill strides over to Marian and yanks her into a hug. "No," she repeats firmly. "He was already dead. When their flesh warps like that, it's because the mortal soul has... molded? Soured? Become no longer good. They're gone after that. Just a breathing corpse with a demon using their memories."

"Corrupted," she corrects quietly. "I— thank you. I don't— I'm not— it's just— _I killed a Templar_. And he was— he was fine yesterday, he was alive yesterday and then he turned into that _thing_ and then I killed him."

"You killed an abomination," Merrill insists gently, cupping the side of Marian's face with her unbloodied hand. "And you saved my life. Twice. Once with a foot of magic I've never even _heard_ of someone doing before."

"A.. foot?" She blinks, then takes a shaky breath. "Feat. A feat."

"No, feet is plural. You did a foot."

"Not— Not the same w-word," she stammers. "Eff ee aye tea. Feat. Plural feats."

"Eff ee what? Oh, is one of those stupid 'no Merrill, it's an entirely different word just invisibly different' things?" the elf demands indignantly, sounding _personally_ attacked.

"Spelled d-different," she stammers, and a strange, nervous giggle escapes her lips. "Foot on your feet is eff ee ee tea."

Merrill stares a moment. "It works in my books," she mutters cryptically, then leans in to kiss Marian firmly. She's blushing and more determined than skilled.

Marian pulls back after a moment, giggling maniacally. "That's n-n-not— d-does that c-count as our f-f-first k-k-iss or n-not?" she laughs, doubling over.

Merrill, still blushing, shrugs helplessly. "I dunno? But we can have another if you'd prefer one after a date or something?" _That dream was... Well, it was silly and kind of, hmmm, fakeish, I guess? But still, it was really alluring. The idea of it. And even if not, I'm glad her eyes aren't so completely shattered._

"A d-d-d-date. You're a-a-asking me o-out? Wh-while I'm c-c-c-covered in b-blood?" she laughs.

"Nooo," Merrill says quickly. "But _you_ can ask me out. Later. When you're not all... dizzy-headed. Speaking of— are you hurt? You, well, you ate a lightning bolt after all."

"Uh. My ch-chest hurts s-some. I should... I should lie down."

Merrill frowns as she steps back just a little. She looks down at her hand, then clenches it tightly. Wincing, she holds up the yet again sluggishly bleeding hand and chants a healing spell.

"Blood! Blood magic. That's blood magic," she stammers, sitting down on a log.

Frowning, she nods slowly. "Yessss? So was the spirit ward I cast. I wanted to make sure it was strong enough to last for at least two or three days and you're already tired so I didn't want for you to pay the healing cost."

"I suppose it's not like we have an escort anymore," she manages, with another giggle.

"And I'd like to point it out it was the _Templar_ that went abomination, not the Blood Mage," Merrill says with a sniff.

Marian frowns a bit. "How— how did that h-happen, anyway? Aren't they immune?"

"No-one is immune to possession," Merrill corrects Marian. "Well. I mean, no-one with a connection to the Fade. So Tranquil and dwarves are safe, unless you force a connection first somehow first." A pause. "And I suppose someone that's already possessed can't get possessed. Again, I mean."

"Do you think... that was a demon? Our dream?"

"Umm. Maybe a little? Maybe why they were shared," Merrill says slowly, nodding. "That would make sense. But it— the topics, the enticements— those were real. For me, I mean."

"...I liked the dream. It was a good life. I just couldn't... it's not that you're not cute, it's just, I don't... I only just met you. Why are you in my dreams already? It being shared makes more sense."

"Because I was available?" Merrill offers, gaze dropping to the ground. "Because we're both lonely?"

"I'm not lonely," Marian replies quickly. "Lonely implies I need something. I'm fine being solitary."

Merrill just looks at her with sad, knowing eyes.

"I chose this life. My work is more important than dating."

"Why can't you have both?"

"There's only so many hours in a day," she begins, raking a hand through her hair.

"Well, that's not _entirely_ sure," Merrill replies, a teasing light in her eyes. "I can fudge that a little. But even without that ability, breaks make your brain smoother. Work smoother."

"Can we— can we discuss that when I'm not on the verge of a breakdown?" requests Marian. "Just... I don't know what to do and I kind of want my mother right now. And that's a bad sign. My mother's a total bitch."

"Oh. Right. Sorry. I just— My brain likes distractions and I like thinking about kissing and dating a lot more than, umm, _that_." She gestures towards the magnet rock and its 'decoration.'

"Can we find some water? I want to wash my face. Um, I guess boil it first. Prehistoric germs. Are the germs frozen in time? The water was moving from that stream back there but..."

"Any germs not inside a living host are dead by now," Merrill says with a shrug. "Magic gets... weird with stuff that small. Let's get some water so you can clean up and..." Merrill swallows. "I'll convert our tent into a—" She pauses, clearly not sure what the proper word is. "Blanket with sticks around it that we can use to drag, ummm, proof of what happened back with."

"A... sled? I think a sled," she suggests. "Yeah. And... thank you. For... all this," she adds, waving a hand.

"That's what friends do," Merrill offers tentatively.

"Friends," she agrees, with a nod. _We can be friends. I think I'd like that._

They head for the stream, fetching water in a collapsible bucket and dunking a rag into it so Marian can wash her face. It'd be better boiled, but making a fire is difficult; instead, she finds the icy water refreshing on her skin. _It's so much warmer in the bubble than outside it, but the water flows through it, not having much time to heat up... So strange. I wonder why the heat doesn't leech out into the snow around the bubble? I bet—_

She doesn't have time to finish the thought. A hand reaches for her throat, and she jerks back with a shriek, her eyes lifting to meet the mostly-transparent eyes of Drass. He doesn't speak; he just reaches for her, his hand going through her as the figure vanishes altogether.

A fist sized bolt of unevenly shaped magic whizzes through the empty air a second later, the hue of it suggesting it's not very powerful. "Marian! Are you okay?"

"I— that was— what the fuck?!" she shrieks.

"I don't know, I barely saw— I just saw a shape, pale blue and faintly glowing and— I just cast," Merrill babbles as she reaches Marian to look her over for injuries.

"Drass. It was Drass. I saw his face. What the fuck what the _fuck_! We're leaving. Now."

"Help me finish with the sled." The elf looks around with concern. "Pulling it out will be something of a challenge but..." She bites her lip. "I could free a dinosaur and, uh, convince it to help us pull it out."

"You—" _that's blood magic_. "You won't get caught?" she asks, changing her mind at the last moment.

"Animals are pretty easy," Merrill says with a head shake. "Once I befriend them, I can lapse the spell. Well. Presuming we pick one that's a herbivore and preferably a pack animal. As long as I treat them well and such, we'll be fine."

"Okay. Okay. Let's just — let's just get out of the magic haunted Fade forest as fast as possible."

"Agreed," Merrill says fervently.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Okay. Okay. Let's just — let's just get out of the magic haunted Fade forest as fast as possible."
> 
> Marian and Merrill had a sleepover inside the eternal daylight of the magic fade bubble, along with Corporal Drass, who quickly became an abomination and attacked. Now, having killed their abominated minder, the pair make their way back to Deception Station to face up to his boss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Discussions of race, racism. Family troubles. Anti-mage bias and general Templar-ity.

It takes them a good hour to finish the sled— really a sledge— and find a suitable dinosaur to free and tame. The beast, roughly the size of a small cow with a dull grey-brown hide and a fan-like bone crest over its brow tipped with spikes, is surprisingly easy for Merrill to enchant. "Almost like it doesn't have any resistance to that sort of magic at all." Once that's worked out and they don't have to drag the thing themselves, they make much better time out of the bubble. They lose some time at the change-over, as it takes some doing to coax the reptile into the snow even with cold wards in place, but they manage.

"So... how do you think we should do this? Explain I mean," Merrill clarifies.

"I— I don't know. I just— I don't know," she admits. "Tell the truth I guess. Pray we don't get arrested."

"I won't go without a fight," Merrill says quietly. "I've had to fight for my freedom and life before."

"How have you managed to become someone if you've had to fight Templar? I'll never be famous or respected if I get arrested."

Merrill's eyes grow shadowed. "No witnesses, no accusations," she says simply, sorrow in her voice.

"Oh-kay, please don't kill my mentor, thank you very much," Marian says rapidly.

"Most of the time I just break the memories," Merrill says almost blankly. _For definitions of 'most' that mean twice._

"That's..." Marian begins, then lets it drop. _She's nice, and she's sweet, and she's kind, but don't get that mixed up— she's still a blood mage. Still dangerous. Deadly, even. Don't let your guard down, not even for a minute_.

"I never attack first. I try to evade and avoid fights if I can. But I won't value my life and freedom as less than another's," Merrill insists firmly. "I am a person."

"A dangerous person," the human points out. "I just killed a Templar. Shouldn't I value my freedom and safety less than the lives of the other Templar, who I am a danger to? I'm going to have to convince them I'm not going to hurt them, and I— I welcome it, really. I'm not going to attack unprovoked. I have nothing to fear. But they have every right to be afraid of me, to take steps to protect themselves from me. They don't know I didn't summon that demon."

Merrill frowns. "And they're not dangerous, with their armor and guns and swords? Their own magic? Planes and ships, bombs and missiles? I've seen films of what modern bombs can do— why aren't all engineers locked in cages and watched? Any of them _could_ build one of those just the same as any mage could pact with a demon."

"Bombs don't tempt people. You heard what Morrigan said about me; I'm wide open to temptation."

Merrill scoffs. "People don't need demons to be tempted to evil," she says with well-earned bitterness.

"Yes, well, I can fry someone at fifty paces, so let's not remind people of that."

"And I've seen that Captain shot a deer at fifty yards. And they don't mind carrying their weapons as an open threat."

"You know it's different for us."

"Why?"

"It just is! Magic is meant to serve Man, and when it does not, it opens the door for— for what happened to Drass."

"If the Gods— or your Maker— didn't mean for us to have our gifts, we should not have been given them. Doing evil with them should be stopped, yes, the same as any other gift. But just having them? No. _That_ is evil."

"It's a double-edged sword. We can do great good with them, but also, great evil. So we have to be watched carefully. I intend to do great good, but here I've killed one of the watchmen."

"The same watchmen that tried to kill us in exchange for demon powers? Or maybe it was, accepted demon powers in order to kill us?" Merrill asks sweetly. "Again, magic isn't _special_. Anything can be used for evil or good. People need teachers, not guards."

"Why not both?"

"Because the guards kill us before we can learn? Because it's _never_ both. Once people have guards, the teachers fade away or never show up."

"I have both," she argues. "My father taught me, and Dagna, and the other professors at Oxford."

"You're the rich daughter of a powerful man. And yet you _still_ fear the guards. Imagine how it's like for someone without that protection."

"No-one protects me," she snaps. "My idiot twin, the favorite of the family, was taken, almost tranquilled. Do you think I'll be any luckier than him? When my own parents—"

"Almost is a very important word," Merrill says simply. "If he wasn't the son of your father, would it have been 'almost' or 'already?'"

"That's what I mean— he was almost, because Father loves him. Nobody will come save me if they take me here."

"I would," Merrill says softly. "I would come if I could."

Marian looks at her out of the corner of an eye. "They'd just take you too."

"Not alive. If it came to it, I already—" She swallows. "People think I'm weak, because I can only use weak Arcane Bolt and brambles. I'm not. I just hate fighting. I want to learn. I want to help. I want to _remember_ and _teach_."

Marian is quiet for a moment, walking alongside the beast, deep in thought. Finally, she says, "Teach me? Whatever it is you— your backup plan? Your Last Resort? I've never... Mine is painful, and uncertain. I'd rather have a sure bet."

Merrill is silent a moment. "It's not easy to learn," she says finally. "Easy to cast, once you have all the foundation." She looks upwards. "Creating a fade step rift that leads back to before it starts is a, umm, a wonky sort of concept. But having, even for a bare split second, two bodies atop each other is— destructive."

She winces. "Effective," she murmurs. "The best I have is sending all the lightning I can summon through my body."

"That could be effective but people have lived through real lightning bolts." Merrill glances over at her new friends curiously. "Though I suppose if you use even a tenth of the control you did earlier, you could stop your heart with only a dollop of power really."

"It's possible. I can route away from my heart— I'd route toward it. But I can't practice the technique, so it's far from certain. I had hoped... well. There's not enough time to learn a whole new school of magic on the walk back, even for me."

Merrill smiles thinly. "Stay within a hundred feet of me then," she says simply. "As for practicing, well, hmmm. What about using it on others? Like a deer? We could offer to help with the hunting."

"That would be... a good idea," she admits, chewing her lower lip. "I... Thank you. I hope we survive the night."

"If you had to choose— if you had to choose between Tranquil, fugitive as a killer, or death." Merrill stares up at the sky. "I made my decision a long time ago. It helps, to think it over when you have time, ahead of time."

"Fugitive is the same as dead," she says quietly. "The death of my dreams. No. Tranquil is the same— I won't want for anything ever again, I won't desire anything. I would be dead. Better to let my family bury me and grieve."

"Fugitive isn't death," Merrill disagrees. "You can make a new life, as long as you live, as long as you feel. Tevinter and Russia won't care if the Templar want your death."

"I'm going to _be_ someone someday. I'm going to go home and make them see what I can really do. I can't do that if I'm a fugitive."

"Mail them a video? Or just win all the awards so they can't help but notice? Like the Nibble one from the dream."

"Again, fugitive— I can't win all the awards if the Templar are looking for me." A pause. "Nobel, by the way."

"You can if you're important enough to powerful people. If you come up with any of that stuff from our dream, Tevinter would protect you from an army." She shrugs. "Not the path I would take, but it could work."

"Merrill, I can't... I can't do all that," she admits. "I'm good. Amazing, even. But I'm not _that_ good. No-one is, alone."

"Then make or discover something small that gets you a team. Work with that team until you discover more and use it to get a bigger team and then discover or make something even better to get a bigger team to help you—"

"And none of that matters if I get made Tranquil tonight," Marian cuts in. "Or if I have to go on the run, never getting a chance to prove what I can do. This trip is my chance— I can get enough out of this to prove my worth, to have a chance of being taken in if I have to go on the run. But here? Tonight? If I don't get through tonight, it's all over."

Merrill studies Marian for a long minute. "Then... then if it goes bad, miss me with lightning. I'll kill the Templar and run. You drive me off. But please miss. Don't get me wrong, I would love it if we can just explain what happened and they be sad and then thank us for bringing his melty, nasty corpse back and then we pet our dinosaur. But... I don't need to be famous to fulfill my goal. You do."

Marian stops walking to stare at Merrill. "Thank you," she says finally. "That might be the nicest thing anyone's ever offered to do for me."

"You could have run earlier," Merrill says quietly. "But you didn't even hesitate to catch that lightning. You couldn't be sure demon lightning would react the like normal lightning. Someone that does that deserves nice things. Someone like that deserves a friend."

* * *

By the time they return, Drass' corpse has finished reverting to the abomination form; Merrill's wards only gave it the seeming of humanity while preventing it from being possessed, but she's not going to spend the energy now that they're out of the bubble and into the eternal night and frost once more. It's still recognizably him, however. Marian holds her head high, despite being exhausted through and through, as she tugs the sledge past Krem, who is on night guard duty, and up to Gregoir's door, pounding on it firmly.

There's a muffled reply, likely an oath by the tone, then the door is yanked open. "It's quarter to midnight, what— Mage Amell." Greagoir's eyes narrow as he realizes who— and what— is at his door. "Explain yourself."

Merrill hangs back, petting the triceratops they've domesticated. Or adopted. _Let's see how this plays out. I don't trust these jailors, not to do any good things anyway._ And so she watches, and waits.

"There's been an incident," says Marian, her voice firm, unwavering. "I regret to inform you that Knight-Corporal Drass is dead. We have returned his body to be buried."

The Knight-Captain stiffens, then rips the door open the rest of the way to reveal him standing in wool trousers and sleeping shirt. And holding his sword, the anti-magic runes gleaming in the dim light. "Explain yourself mage," he snaps. Across the compound, there's a shout from the Templar barracks.

To her credit, she doesn't shy back, doesn't flinch. "We awoke to find him an abomination. I battled the creature, destroyed it, and brought the remains back here. You may examine the body yourself to see the truth of my words."

Merrill scoffs a little. "You pinned it to a rock and were going to leave it— I'm the one that told you to kill it and gave you the hatchet," she lies fairly convincingly. "Mercy is a virtue, but not with abominations like he had become." _Marian, don't get in trouble!_

"An abomination!" Greagoir draws himself up. "Drass is a Templar! He would not fall prey to—" As Marian steps back a little, he spots the body in the sledge.

"Perhaps the increased Fade presence strengthened the demon?" Marian offers charitably. _I'm the one covered in blood, there's no way they'd buy Merrill taking his head off, but if he doesn't buy the truth, we have a backup lie..._

"The Veil _is_ gossamer thin inside the bubble," Merrill comments lightly, though her hand whitens around the staff as Templar begin to pour out of the barracks. "Anyone can be taken by a demon, it's just much, much easier to take people with strong Fade connections."

"What is all this racket?" Flemeth's voice demands from the hut she's sharing with Morrigan, having decided sharing a smaller room with one is better than larger with many.

"The situation is handled," Marian says quickly. "There is no need to rouse yourself." _Dagna, this would be a great time for you to turn out...._

_"Handled?_ " Greagoir demands, sounding outraged. "My soldier is dead, by a mage's hand and with only a mage's word that he succumbed!"

"You can see the evidence for yourself, Knight-Captain," she says, her voice still even, deadly calm. "There is no need to rouse the entire party. Unless you fear yourself incapable of handling the situation yourself?"

_Oh yes, very meek and biddable_ , Merrill thinks to herself, though she feels pride in her new friend for standing up to the bully. "Does not your Chant warn against arrogance? That the man most certain of his invisibility to temptation is the first to fall to it?"

"Invincibility child," Flemeth says as she steps out of the hut, impeccably dressed despite the hour. She moves to the corpse and studies it. "And your words are well chosen, though I suspect deliberately so. This is the work of a pride demon."

Greagoir frowns, not particularly liking the trio of mages talking back as they are. Still, he gestures for the two younger mages to move out of his way so he can inspect the body himself. "Your staves," he says curtly. "Toss them to the ground while we conduct our investigation."

"Of course, Knight-Captain," says Marian, gently laying her staff in the snow beside the sledge and stepping back from it. _That staff cost me a month's wages, I'm not throwing it to the ground._

Merrill hesitates just a few seconds longer, then does the same. She is less careful, tossing it in the snow, though she does take care to put it near Marian's staff. _If I need to, I can teleport without my staff to get it. If I have both, that's less doubt on why Marian 'allowed' me to kill the Templar. I really hope I don't have to kill anyone._

Once the other Templar are present, Greagoir sends the recruit into his quarters to get his armour, or at least the parts easiest to put on. Meanwhile, two of the other Templar inspect the body carefully. "Wounds match their story— three strikes to the neck with a flat blade about five inches long," one of them comments. The other is chanting and touching one finger to the body at various points— eyes, heart, forehead, backs of hands.

"Explain what happened," Greagoir demands. "The whole thing, not just the twenty word summary."

"We were asleep— our dreams were unusual, perhaps influenced by a demon," she says quietly. "But I detected no attempt to influence or possess myself, only unusual dreams. When I awoke, I went to find Knight-Corporal Drass, so that I could verify that I was not under the sway of any demonic forces. He was as you see him now: an Abomination, taken by Pride. We attempted to flee; he attacked us with lightning, and I redirected the lightning, magnetizing a boulder that his armor then stuck to. Merrill then handed me the hatchet, urging me to slay him while we had him helpless, and so I did. Then we cleaned the campsite, packed our gear, and returned immediately— I did not feel it was prudent to subject us to any further demonic influence when we knew a Knight-Corporal had already fallen."

The Templar stiffen, glaring at the elf, who stares blandly back. "Drass was already dead. We just put his corpse to rest," she says with a shrug. "Better us than making you kill someone with your friend's face."

"There was... a second incident, on the way out," Marian says slowly. "It was... I do not know if it was a hallucination. I will seek guidance on that. But I saw— I saw Drass. He lunged for me, attacked me, but he passed through my body as though he were not physically present." This is risky; it makes her look unstable, but also, it may be crucial information to understanding what happened.

"A fade ghost?" That seems to have caught Flemeth's attention again. "Very interesting. Very rare as well, I doubt many have heard of such things. Tell me, what color was this ghost? And was his form that of a human or abomination? Did his touch feel like cool mist or a fetid wind?" Something in her tone, her eyes— Marian has trouble reading the elder mage, but she knows tests and this has the feel of one, well hidden.

"The human seeming," says Marian, frowning. "He was transparent, but also somehow, blue, like Lyrium blue. He felt like a tingle in the air, like static electricity, but somehow soothing instead of prickly."

"An accurate depiction," Flemeth notes, nodding.

"What is a Fade Ghost?" one of the Templar demands. "Some kind of demon?"

The witch sighs, but takes mercy on the dullard. "No. A Fade Ghost is an echo, a memory, captured in the fade like an insect in amber. It both is and is not the late Knight-Corporal. But yes, it can be dangerous, if it has time to absorb power."

"I recommend no-one enter the Fade phenomenon again until further study has been made. It poses a danger, clearly, to both Templar and Mages."

"Of course it's dangerous, child," Flemeth says, amused by Marian's somewhat pompous declaration.. "It's a bubble of frozen time filled with beasts from the most ancient past and a mere breath from the Fade. Nothing has changed since our arrival save that we can no longer pretend this is just a simple trip."

"One of my men is—"

"In the Maker's arms," Flemeth cuts in smoothly. "Have died furthering the cause of your Chantry. Will you forsake his death? Make it worthless?"

"More to the _point_ ," says Marian, "We know there are not only dinosaurs but demons in there, hungry and hunting. The beasts are frozen in place, but the demons are not. There was no reason to expect that would be the case."

"It's the Fade, there are always demons," Flemeth says dismissively. "Now we are forewarned, for those that needed it, and so we can continue with due caution. But continue we shall." She pauses, glancing at the corpse. "Then perhaps tomorrow could be spend in... reflection and planning?"

_That means boring sermons, doesn't it?_ Merrill suspects. _Ugh. Whatever, I can nap with my eyes open._ "My apologies, but it's been a terrible day after a long day with an unrestful night in between— might we seek our beds?"

Greagoir glowers at Flemeth but clearly lacks a rebuttal. "You two are dismissed," he barks, gesturing at them sharply. "Don't leave your rooms, do not attempt to contact anyone and no magic. Recruit Sadatt, secure their staves. Well? Off to bed with you both!"

"Be careful. That staff is expensive." That's all Marian says as she turns, but her shoulders are tense, her hands curled slightly. _How dare he! No magic?! Taking my staff?!!_

She returns to the room she shares with Dagna, shaking her head as she enters. She pauses at the desk, watching her mentor sleep slumped over her work. She'll have a sore neck in the morning in that pose. A surge of anger floods her, and she moves to the bed instead. _Let her. Maybe she'll learn to go the fuck to bed next time._

* * *

Over breakfast, it is decided that only those cut off from the Fade will enter the bubble for a few days— meaning Dagna, thanks to her Shiren blood blocking the connection to the Fade; Clemence, the Tranquil student Dagna brought along; Luka Yang, their IT expert; Korbin Wu, their mechanic; and Rocky, one of the Chargers.

Of course, all this is decided without Dagna, as she's still passed out at her desk. When Marian wakes her, she's in awful pain, and reluctantly decides to sit out the day's efforts, limping her way to Stitches to beg for a healing massage.

The Templar conclude that, as best they can tell, Marian wasn't lying about Drass's condition; and so, reluctantly, they give the staffs back, with a stern warning to keep out of trouble. Without Dagna, Marian asks Clemence to lead the group venturing into the bubble, along with Rocky and Luka. She asks Krem to tag along as a guard, and invites Merrill along, intending to take new measurements from outside the bubble.

Which is fine until the rest of the group gets word of the plan. Suddenly, Flemeth and Morrigan are tagging along, and Knight-Captain Greagoir demands to attend himself, personally, to ensure that none of the mages do anything risky, dangerous, or illegal. So it is a much larger group than Marian intended that makes the two hour hike just after breakfast.

Still, once they get on the road, she slowly works her way up the line toward Merrill, hoping to get some time with her new friend, and her new pet. It had taken some stubbornness but Merrill had maintained control of the freed dinosaur despite the Templar's wariness and Dagna's desire to dissect him. Some consultation with Dennet, the very human herd master for the expedition, had resulted in Sir Fluffy the Steady sporting a blanket vest and leggings with some of the spare warmth runes nestled inside.

"Who's a good boy? Who's carrying all of our tents like it's nothing? Is it you? It is!" The triceratops makes a gurgling grunt as Merrill digs her nails in hard as she scratches it through the thick skin of his neck. "Look Fluffy, it's mama! Hey Marian," she adds with a broad smile.

Marian winces. "I'm not that thing's mother," she points out, stifling a yawn. "I brought you some coffee for the road," she adds, holding out a second thermos. "Or if you don't want it, more for me, I definitely need all the caffeine I can get."

"I have a dino; hand over the coffee and no-one has to be gored," Merrill says with a bright and chipper voice.

Marian laughs, handing over the thermos. "You get any sleep last night?"

"Only after I snuck out to sleep in the stable with Fluffy," Merrill admits softly, after taking a long draught from the thermos.

"I spent a lot of time staring at the ceiling myself," admits Marian. "No weird dreams?"

"I put a spirit ward over myself. It's not safe to leave on for more than two nights in a row, because it blocks all dreams. One really, but two is... doable, if I go light on mana usage." Which, as a blood mage, is much easier for her to do.

"Ugh, jealous," admits Marian. "I had nightmares, but the usual type. Not the freaky demon type."

"I could cast a ward on you tonight, if you want," Merrill offers tentatively, knowing that very few people would be comfortable with a blood mage casting on them.

"Don't you need the energy to protect yourself?" she asks. "Though, if you can teach me, I'd be glad to learn..."

"Not sure you could learn by tonight but it's not very energy intensive," Merrill assures her. "It's the denial of dreams that's unhealthy, not the casting. People need dreams to be healthy."

"I'm a very quick study," assures Marian. "And I know how to cast a physical ward, so that's probably similar, right?"

Merrill makes a face. "I mean, English and Elven are both languages but only one of them makes any damn sense." She leans in and drops her voice to a whisper. "It's not English."

Marian laughs. "Try me. Talk me through the casting."

"Alright," Merrill says agreeably. "What wards do you already know? How much spirit magic do you know?"

Over the next hour and a half, Marian explains what she knows: quite a lot, but in eclectic areas of study, and nothing at all to do with spirits or blood magic given the omnipresent danger of Templar. As they set up the camp on the exterior of the bubble, setting up the various machines they're using to test the Fade strength, Merrill walks Marian through how the ward works, until finally she is able to demonstrate it now that they've stopped.

As Rocky, Luka and Krem check out a small cave to ensure it's still clear to use for a temporary 'safe camp' outside the bubble, the others mill about as they wait. Well, some mill about, as two of them simply continue their lesson. "The gesture is the same as a physical barrier spell. Or, well, it can be. I find that overlapping my, umm." She holds up her pointer and middle finger. "These two, whatever you call them. Just a little, right, like that. I find that doing that makes it a little easier to get the duration exactly right. Try the gesture a few time without channeling."

"That's a very old ward, little elf, one I have not seen used since before you were born," Flemeth says suddenly, causing Merrill to jump. "Very effective, if a bit... quirky."

Marian flinches, barely keeping her feet on the ground. "Is it?" she asks, trying to sound detached. "That's not all that long, in the grand scheme of things," she adds. "Only a few decades out of fashion."

"Old things can be just as good as new things," Merrill adds, though her brow is furrowed. _Kirky?_

"What ward?" Greagoir demands from across the clearing, having heard Flemeth's words. "What are you two casting?"

"Protective magic. A spirit ward, one that prevents those it affects from dreaming or being contacted by spirits or demons. Mentally, I mean, a demon could still stab you or whatever."

His eyes narrow. "If such a ward existed, why do the Templar not have it?"

"Well, it's an old elven ward for one." The elf ticks each answer off as she goes. "Two, I doubt most Templar could cast it, it's not a burst or aura type, it's a ward. Templar don't cast wards. And finally, it can be dangerous if overused. It allows you to sleep, yes, but it's not restful sleep. So you have to be careful about how often it's used."

"We're going to have to cast to do our research," Marian says, frowning. "How would you like us to proceed with our studies? Do you want a warning before every spell cast? Merrill is teaching me the ward to help prevent any repeats of things such as last night."

Greagoir pauses to think that over. He clearly would _like_ to say yes to her sass, but is very well aware of how impractical that is. "You are to inform a Templar before you cast anything on another person and before each series of tests," he finally decides. "You will, of course, not cast on any Templar without a direct order from me. What sort of tests are you going to perform today?"

"We're going to be repeating the tests from day one to see if any measurements have changed: Fade density, arcane potential, electrical resistance, air quality, sound travel, temperature and humidity, arcane penetration offset..." She rattles off a handful more tests, watching Gregoir's eyes glaze over as she talks. _Yeah, I thought so. Why did my idiot brother have to piss off the Templar and get us an escort?!_

"Morrigan and I will be performing the same tests a hundred meters inside the bubble," Flemeth adds almost absently, though the wicked gleam in her eyes shows she was not just expecting Greagoir to react strongly but expecting to enjoy it.

She is correct in both accounts. "Absolutely not!" Greagoir thunders. "The bubble has been clearly shown as a threat—"

"To weak-willed Templar and sleeping mages. Neither myself nor my daughter shall be asleep and we are certainly not Templar," Flemeth interrupts. "We all spent most of a full day inside the bubble prior to the ill-ended sleep-over without issue. It will be fine."

"Why don't you accompany them?" suggests Marian. "I'd hate to see anything go wrong because they didn't have an escort."

"Which would leave you both unattended," Greagoir says with narrowed eyes.

"Outside the bubble. And we'll have Krem. Unless you'd rather supervise us and let the Doctors Korcari go into the bubble alone?"

"You are not to move from this camp, is that understand Miss Amell?" he demands, scowling. "And keep her here as well," he adds, sending a cutting glance at Merrill, whose expression goes very blank.

"Of course. We'll be here all day, doing science," she says, with a warm smile.

"Not one step, one inch, into the bubble, for any reason? Understood?" Merrill fights back a sigh, nodding instead. "No spirit magic. No summoning, you're to cast nothing on the bubble we didn't already cast before. No other experiments."

"Fine," she says, frowning slightly. "It will hamper my efforts a little, but I can work with those restrictions."

"Understood," Merrill says quietly, hand fisted tightly behind her back. _Like I'm her pet! Addressing only her! I'm a Doctor, I outrank her but she's human, she's Andrastian so—_ Merrill takes a slow breath, forces her lips to curve just slightly.

"Very well. Doctor Korcari," Greagoir says, nodding curtly. "Sooner started, sooner done."

"Trite but often true I suppose," she muses, giving the two females once last thoughtful look before striding over to Morrigan.

Greagoir's jaw works for a moment, then he grunts. "Remember The Maker's second commandant." With that rather unsubtle warning, he stalks off after Flemeth.

Once he's a few yards away, Merrill says in a low whisper, "I need to— to walk." Hands trembling slightly, she turns to head away from the camp, though also away from the bubble.

As Merrill departs, she can hear in a low voice, "You know, there's eight fucking other commandments..."

Merrill would normally have found that a bit amusing but right now? No. It's all she can do to keep her magic contained, the stew of insults and accusations in her mouth. She just keeps walking.

Marian sighs, watching her go, then sets about setting up the equipment. _You can't let them get to you. You have to keep moving forward. How the hell did someone like her get a doctorate before me?_ By the time Merrill gets back, she's mostly got her anger under control. Mostly. "I've got this set up," she says, her voice a bit cool. "Thanks for helping."

Merrill scoffs. "The same to you," she says just as cooly.

"Oh shut the fuck up," she snaps. "I'm here doing my share of the work while you have a hissy over Templars being Templars."

Merrill's eyes narrow, then she sags a little. "You didn't even notice. I'm not sure if that's better or worse," she adds in a lower voice.

"Notice what, him hating us because we're mages? Because news flash, that's what they do."

"Why did he talk to you?" Merrill asks, trying to keep her voice even. "Just now, why did he address you?"

"Because I'm the fucking reason they're here— they think I'm going to become a blood mage," she snaps. "Just another feather in their cap, arresting a prominent socialite's daughter."

Merrill pauses, actually given that a moment of thought. "Perhaps. But can you think of a single time one of the Templar— or anyone aside from the Chargers— have spoken to me directly when I didn't start the conversation? This entire trip? I'm a doctor in good standing with a university just as prestigious at Dagna's or Flemeth's. I might not have as long a publishing list but my rate of publishing is very rapid and they've all reviewed well. And yet I'm treated with less respect than anyone." By the time she's finished, her chest is almost heaving, the words have poured out of her so fast she didn't bother to take enough breathes.

"You're _my age_. I know damn well just how fast you can fly through academia if you really knuckle down and work your ass off, and it's not that fucking fast. You either skipped a lot of school as a child, or you got fast-tracked as a diversity candidate. Respect has to be _earned_ , dammit."

Merrill pales. "Fuck you, Miss Amell," she says coldly. "I have devoted my entire _life_ to learning my craft. Nothing else, nothing but what's needed to fix my legacy. I've never had a friend, I never played games or sports or learned to dance. I didn't bother with learning other disciplines, just this. I earned every scrap of knowledge and skill I have by _taking_ it from a world that looks down on me and _fuck you_ for pretending to be my friend while doing the same."

"I see," she snaps. "You just want people who will suck up to you. People afraid to tell you the truth. Well I'm not afraid of you, and I'm not afraid of the truth either, which is more than you can say!"

"And you only want people that praise you. You want teachers you can trick and use to learn, then discard. You want rivals you can win against to look better and you want," she gestures wildly, "idiots to gape at you in stunned awe. The idea that someone could be your equal, even your better? No, impossible, they must have cheated. Must be lying or just lucky."

"Fuck you. You know who I fucking respect? Dagna. She hasn't a lick of talent, she's physically incapable of casting, and she can run circles around you and every other mage in academia right now. If you were two years older than me, maybe it'd be possible. But it's not physically possible for you to have met the fucking requirements. It's barely physically possible for me to have done it! I'm willing to bet if Dagna quizzed us both, I have a broader, more extensive knowledge than you'll ever have. Being good at one trick and having pointy ears doesn't make you a fucking doctor, it makes you a show pony!"

"No, it makes me a doctor of _that one thing_!"

"You keep telling yourself that. Keep telling yourself you're able to pull your weight, you're not just here so we don't look racist by failing to include any elves. In ten years nobody will remember your name, and nobody will forget mine."

"I don't care if anyone remembers my name! I just want to help my people remember their own!" She steps back, arms crossing in front of her. "Why can't you— why is it so hard to accept I might know something better than you?"

"But that's not your fucking beef, is it? You're pissy because _you_ want to be treated _better_ than me, and you're not fucking better than me. You're pissy that the Templars don't bow down and kiss your ass, nevermind that they only talk to the rest of us because they hate us more."

"He told you to _control me_. Like I'm your pet or slave. I outrank you, whether you think I deserve the title or not, I have it. He should have at least directed his comments about me, to me. That would have been enough, even if I should be treated as Dagna and Flemeth's junior."

"I'm clearly the responsible one— I'm the one organizing this entire fucking trip, I was his point of contact as soon as we found out he was coming along, I've been organizing all the supply lines and arranging the guards and handling the money, why wouldn't he assume I'm in charge of this afternoon as well?! Not that anyone fucking cares I do twice as much work as anyone else— I'm _only_ the _student_ , why bother showing me any respect, clearly it must be racism!"

"Any— any respect? I m not asking for him to have ignored you or treated you poorly. I just— Is is really that much to ask that he have spoken to me directly at least once? Why is me asking to be treated as least as your equal an insult to your hard work?"

"Because we're _not_ equals! You're demanding as much respect because of a _title_ that I get for working my ass off for _years_! You want respect, _earn it_ like everyone else! You're just like my mother, assuming everyone will respect her for her fucking surname without her lifting a finger!" Hot tears well up in her eyes, and she angrily wipes them away with the back of her hand. "Fuck it. Forget it. You want to run this whole fucking expedition, be my guest, Your Majesty. It's not like anyone will ever appreciate what I do anyway."

"I worked for mine too!" Merrill shouts back, crying herself. "I worked for decades to teach myself what I know. I didn't have tutors or schools or even a damn family to help me. Just the Keeper, cold, distant and disapproving after I keep pushing to learn more, learn faster. I get that you worked hard, I really do. You could probably have gotten your degree years ago if they had let you. And you probably are smarter than me, certainly better taught. But dammit, I am the foremost expert in my field I've ever even heard of, living or dead, and just once I'd like for someone to respect that without tacking on 'for an elf.'"

"Sure," she says bitterly. "Your name's going to be on every fucking paper I write, before mine, with Doctor after it, despite you so far doing maybe half the work I've done, and _not even being able to write in English_ , let alone co-author my fucking papers. If we die here nobody will even remember I was on this expedition. But sure, obviously the problem is that _I'm_ too full of _myself_. Please forgive this unworthy soul for daring to speak so poorly of you." She turns away, her voice subdued as the anger banks itself.

_Actually, it won't. I guess you didn't get a copy of my contract... my name won't be anywhere, as part of getting to come along. Stupid Templar bullies._ The crack about not being able to write in English stings, though it also pisses her off. _I read and write seven languages but the only ones that matter are yours, huh? Whatever._ "Think whatever you want, Miss Amell," she says tiredly, even that sting not enough to give her the energy to continue. Scowling, the elf Fade-steps away, stalking off to sit with Fluffy. "Should rename you," she mutters as she cuddles up against his side. "It's a stupid name." _Stupid dream._

"Great. Fucking great." Marian scowls down at the instrumentation. "Whatever. I'm going to make this fucking expedition the best fucking expedition that ever fucking expeded, with or without fucking Doctors who are fucking useless while I do all the damn work, because I'm _Marian Fucking Hawke Fucking Amell_ , and I'm going to get my fucking Doctorate regardless of how much fucking bullshit I have to put the fuck up with."

Over the next half hour or so, her rage reduces back to a simmer as she singlehandedly sets up the machines, takes down the accurate measurements— twice — and casts the diagnostic spells required. It'd be easier with two. But fuck if she's going to ask _that damn elf_ for help.

Finishing a casting, Marian is startled when she reaches down to pick up the clipboard to record the results only to find it missing. A glance up reveals Merrill, already writing it down without a word. Well, at first, as she hesitates after filling in a few blanks. "...how do you spell 'opaque?'" she asks in a tentative voice.

_So you **can** write English_, Amell notes, but says nothing of it, only spelling the word aloud. _I'll have to look over it later, make sure it's accurate._

Merrill nods quietly, only repeating it back to be sure. She writes slowly, carefully, as one unfamiliar with the task. As they continue, she has to ask for help with several more words. Technical words directly related to magic she seems to know, it's mostly just descriptive words and the like she needs help with. And peeking at the clipboard shows that her sentences are blunt, almost phrases, with little to nothing that's not required. As they finish the round of tests, meaning they have to walk fifty meters to repeat the entire battery to confirm uniformity, Merrill takes a slow breath. "Sorry about making you start without me. I needed to calm down. I— I warded the cave off and sent up our tent."

"Thank you, Doctor Sabrae," she says, her tone a bit clipped, but mostly sounding tired, subdued. "Rest assured, I had the situation under control in your absence."

Merrill's shoulders hunch but she doesn't take the bait. "I had no doubt about your competence."

"Of course." The response sounds perfunctory, not genuine, as she walks, her eyes on their destination instead of her companion.

Merrill casts about for something else to say, something else to offer to try and... _Why bother? There's nothing you can do, she hates you now._ Unable to come up with anything, she focuses as best she can on the work.

Marian does more than her share of the work, not asking Merrill to do a single thing if she can help it; still, she's polite, if distant, as she speaks. After an hour or so, she excuses herself, walking a few feet away before pulling out her cellphone and dialing.

Once the other person answers, she cuts right to it, asking, "Did you eat yet?" A pause. "Eat lunch." Another pause. "I won't send you the figures until you eat lunch." Another pause. "Yes, now." Another pause, then she pulls the phone away from her ear, blinks, shrugs, and comes back to work.

"She won't eat unless I remind her," she says casually, shoulders lifting a touch with embarrassment.

"Dagna?" Merrill asks, already guessing the answer. "You have to spend a lot of time looking after her." Biting her lip, she glances away. "And you've expanded that to the whole expedition without being ordered to." The 'why' is unspoken but there if Marian lets herself hear it.

"Academics always want things like this to run smoothly. But they're adamantly against paying one more person than they need to. So there's no hope of hiring a coordinator. It falls to grad students to make things run smooth and well, fuck if I trust Clemence to arrange anything to do with human beings. And Lysas is an undergrad."

Merrill wrinkles her nose, pointedly letting the 'human' qualifier go. "I have noticed that about universities. They always have budgets for fancy fundraisers and plaques but ask for a bit of coin for a research project and they stare at you like you requested their newborn's heart." She shakes her head. "Still, it's not fair to make you do all of it. How can I help going forward?"

"It's fine," she says quickly. "I'm used to it, and I'm good at it."

"May I know the reason you do not wish my help?" Merrill tries to keep her tone as polite as possible, to keep the hurt out of it. _What do you want from me?_

_You'll just get in my way._ She takes a deep breath, clearly not saying what she first thought as she instead says, in a demure tone, "I'm certain you have more important things to take care of, Doctor Sabrae."

"Not lately, given the restrictions on our research and most of the Chargers being busy. No-one else will talk to me longer than they have to in order to get what they need," she says bitterly. "Even then, it's really only Altha— Bull, I mean, and Krem that are friendly. Sometimes Stitches. So no, I have plenty of time."

"Perhaps they're concerned they'll offend you, Doctor Sabrae," she says, without thinking, though she does flinch a little as she adds the title on the end. She takes a deep breath, then, and shakes her head. "I can handle it. I'd have to spend double the time to teach you. And it's not my place to be teaching a learned professor anything. I'm only a grad student."

Merrill gives her a look of pure disbelief. _Offend me? They delight in offending me! The Templar at least do it on purpose to see if I'll lash out._ "I see. If that is the stance you wish to take, I will of course defer to your superior knowledge. I'm sorry I wasted your time. Shall we resume our work then?" Her tone is empty, perfunctory, and she's already turning away to look at the bubble.

" _My_ time," she says bitterly, shaking her head. "Nevermind. Yes, of course. Let's continue."

Their instruments pick up the disturbance before it can be seen: a magical signature, intense and active, coming at them hot. A demon? Before they quite have time to panic, the creature comes into view: a giant spider, all needle-legs and a bulbous abdomen, approaching them without fear or hesitation.

Marian grabs her staff, readying it with a crackle of static; before she can cast, the creature rears back onto the hind legs and transforms once more into Morrigan Korcari, pissed-off Witch of the Wilds. "Did I frighten you? Apologies."

"Giant spiders rushing at people are frightening, yes," Merrill calls from twenty yards away in a flanking position. She lowers her own staff, then puffs back next to Marian. "Is something wrong?"

"No, nothing at all," she says, with a bit of a sniff. " _Mother_ simply wished to ensure that the measurements are within parameters. I told her I was certain you would say something if they were not, but she told me I had much to learn and my time would be better spent assisting you, Doctor Merrill of the Sabrae Tribe, than helping an _old woman_ frolic in the fields." She rolls her eyes, leaning on her staff. "And so, here I am."

"I see," says Marian, her voice tight. "Well, perhaps you should fetch a notebook and help me with these calculations?"

Morrigan doesn't respond, glancing instead to Merrill. A part of the elf, a larger part than she'd like to admit, pushes her to agree. But an image blocks the words. Not of the dream, but of Marian, body taunt and sparking, as she puts herself in the path of a deathblow. "Thank you," she says slowly. "But Marian is lead this morning. I'm just assisting."

"Really?" asks Morrigan, arching an eyebrow. "I wasn't aware she had a specialty in Fade magics. Tell me, Marian Hawke Amell of Kirkwall, what have you published?"

Marian reddens a bit, but stands her ground. "I published three pieces on the use of lightning magic in technological applications and one about healing applications of fire," she says, her chin high.

"And from what tradition did you draw these techniques?" presses the Witch.

"None," she says, with a bit of a scowl. "We made them up."

"There is nothing truly new in this world, Marian Hawke Amell. If you think you have invented such, you have only your own ignorance to blame." With another sniff, she turns, heading for the cave where they set up camp.

"All knowledge must have a start, Morrigan. Walking a path overgrown and faded to nothing is as much to be respected as blazing a virgin path," Merrill calls after her.

Morrigan turns. "Only to one with the wisdom to find the path and the understanding to clear it for others. There is a reason we respect our elders and those who have gone before."

"If a child, a youth and a crone all speak the same answer, should they not all have the same weight?" Merrill counters. "The so-called expert I defeated to get the chance to earn my doctorate was nearly four times my age. I was still right and he was still wrong. Experience and history are assets, not victories."

"And did you invent your field whole cloth, Merrill of the Sabrae Tribe?"

"You misunderstand me," the elf says patiently, even if that patience is born largely of weariness. "I am sorry, sometimes it's hard for me to speak human tongues. I will try again, more carefully. My point is not that old knowledge is useless. Far from it. Every thought and discovery of our ancestors lays the foundation for the efforts of the living. Marian's discoveries with technology were based on principles and ideas of others, yes, just like nearly everything else, but that doesn't diminish their brilliance or her efforts. I'll admit I barely understand the one paper I was able to find in Elven, but it's clearly well done."

"You may speak Elven, it matters not to me," says Morrigan, waving a hand. "I only speak English for the benefit of the humans in our group. As it so happens, I have read Miss Amell's papers, such as they were. The fire work was largely derivative of the work of Peregrinus Proteus, with minor adjustments clearly influenced by the Siberian-Mongolian Tradition, and the electrical work was just a rehash of several of Diogenes of Sinope's principles adapted to fit the framework laid out by her father, Malcolm Hawke of Kirkwall. None of it was worth much."

Marian bristles, turning away. "As you like," she says, coldly. "I see no reason for you to lower yourself to assist such an unworthy scholar. Perhaps you would prefer to spin a web someplace and let me do the real work."

"So she combined two different influences into a coherent result that no-one else realized could combine successfully... and that is not worthy of respect?" Merrill asks, brow furrowing. _For someone that says there's nothing new to discover in the world, she expects much from people._ "Which of your accomplishments would you like to present as a better example of worth much?"

"Of mine? There is little to tell, perhaps save the restoration of the spells used to preserve food for those who traveled the ancient roads of Arlathan and the runes that may be used to produce similar effects in the modern day, given sufficient power." She sniffs a little. "Only an entirely new school of magic, nothing compared to her synthesis I am certain."

"So you found someone else's work and published it as your own without improvement or alteration," Merrill paraphrases.

"I restored knowledge to a world keen on forgetting! Surely this is more useful than an old parlor trick with a new coat of paint."

"But _you_ didn't do anything." She pauses. "Well, okay, that's not fair. You recognized the value of something you found and made the effort of making it public. That's also of value. But making something new, even if you use, umm, cooking suppli— ingrandiants! Even if you're mixing up ingrandiants someone else grew or gathered, that doesn't mean the skill involved in making tasty bread isn't very worthy. Both approaches are good and it's a benefit to our expedition to have both of you here."

"Perhaps you do not understand the scope of what has been lost. For every scrap of hard-won knowledge of Arlathan, we have perhaps a tenth of what we would need to restore it entire. The rest comes from understanding and experimentation to rediscover what was lost. Without that grounding in history, we are doomed to endlessly repeat the same mistakes like a rodent trapped in a maze. We—"

"Yes, thank you," cuts in Marian. "This is only the oldest debate in Academia. We are all quite familiar with it by now."

"It is?" Merrill asks, glancing at Marian. "Oh. Sorry." She shifts from foot to foot, looking a bit embarrassed. "I suppose we should get back to work?"

"I suppose I had best take my own measurements, if your understanding is so limited," sniffs Morrigan, turning to head back toward the cave.

Marian waits until she's out of earshot — barely — before muttering, "Creepy bitch."

"She's very..." Merrill searches for the right word. "Rosy. Pretty in a boring but nice way but stabby. Tiny stabs."

"Thorny. Rosy means something else," she replies absently, before wincing. "Sorry. Nevermind."

"I asked you to correct me if I misspeak, remember. Thank you for helping," Merrill finds herself saying. _I really do suck at being angry with people..._

"I didn't think you still—" She cuts herself off, shaking her head.

Merrill shrugs a little. "I'm terrible at holding grudges. I... it hurt, that you didn't notice or seem to care that Greagoir was being racist towards me. Has been this whole time. But... but I hadn't really noticed all the work you do for us, the effort you put in."

"Gregoir's a shit," she says, blandly. "I thought you were better than that, but when push comes to shove, you think you're better than me just like Morrigan does. So I wasn't sure how serious you were being before, when you asked for my help."

Merrill feels a pang of anger hit but fights it back. "What did I do that makes you think that?" she asks carefully.

"Carrying on about your doctorate— as if nobody without one matters, as if the letters after your name matters more than what you do in life."

Merrill winces, looking down. "It... it's the first time I've ever been acknowledged as... as having something worth praising. I was," she hesitates, trying to find the right words in English. "Elves don't keep to a strict Keeper and apprentice limit for mages anymore, not most Clans. But every mage has to have a mentor, a teacher. One to one, just not always the Keeper. And most Clans still keep a limit, even if it's more than two. My birth Clan had too many mages, so I was... traded away. Not even sold, they had to pay for the other Clan to take me. I was given away four times before I ended up with the Sabrea. Even there, even finally having a teacher, I was never... That pieces of paper... it doesn't make me better than you. It makes me a person."

"What?" she asks, blinking. "The fuck it does! I don't have one, does that make me _not_ a person? You're a person because you were born, end of story. I don't even care that you're an elf. Like I said, I'm part elf too."

"Sorry, I didn't mean— It means that other people agree that I'm a person," Merrill corrects herself. "That I'm not just the weirdo that's always reading or playing with the Veil and summoning spirits. That I'm not just a belly to feed that doesn't produce anything of use."

"Again, that's bullshit. Nobody here thinks you're not a _person_. Even Gregoir just thinks you're a _mage_ , like the rest of us."

Merrill offers a sad smile. "Thank you for thinking that way. For finding it ridiculous that I might not..." She shakes her head. _I wish I could have had a life that let me feel that way._

"It is ridiculous. Honestly, the way Morrigan goes on about the ancient elves, I expected better. If they made you feel that way, they deserve to die out."

"Every group has people like that," Merrill says quietly. "Elves, dwarves, humans, qunari... I'm sure there are even good Templar. Hidden away somewhere. Maybe in a cave. Deep in a cave."

"The last time we found humans thinking that way, we launched a huge war, dropped some atomic bombs, and killed them all," snaps Marian.

Merrill stares at Marian. "Are you ser— Marian, I've had humans try to rape me more than once simply because 'that's what a knife-ears is for.' Racists might not control governments out right but they're very much alive."

"One or two racists maybe, but not like, anyone _important_." She shakes her head. "Maybe in the UP. But even my grandparents keep that shit out of the public eye. They know nobody talks that way anymore. Bigoted pricks."

Merrill studies Marian for a moment, then cocks her head. "How about we do a survey? Ask the rest of the expedition if bigots are still a large, umm, faction of the populace."

Marian stares at her a moment. " _You_ want to poke Morrigan again? Or worse, Flemeth? Gregoir?"

A pause. "How about Krem? He's nice. And Flemeth is... condescending but as long as you can swallow that and be polite, she's willing to lecture. Answer questions."

"We can ask Krem," she says, begrudgingly.

Merrill nods. "Finish this location or take a break?"

"Finish, of course. The work comes first."

Still, there's only so much work. Before long, they find themselves approaching the Chargers' second-in-command, Krem no-last-name-given. _Is it even his real first name? Maybe Krem is his last name? Or maybe it's a nickname, like Stitches or Dalish?_ Marian steps back, letting Merrill take the lead in approaching the blue-haired human.

Krem glances up from his whittling as they approach, tilting his head. "Need something?" he asks, eyeing the pair.

"Your opinion to help settle a dispute," Merrill replies. "Marian, do you want to state it or shall I?"

Marian frowns. "Merrill here's a bit sensitive— she seems to think everyone's treating her badly because of her ears, and not just hanging back because she's shy."

"Not _everyone_ ," allows Krem. "But Gregoir? Likely."

Marian scowls. "Gregoir's an ass," she points out. "But no, I meant more, generally. In society. Not this expedition, but— I tried to tell her people just aren't racist like they used to be—"

Now the dusky-hued Charger laughs. "Good one."

"Evidently someone dropped a bunch of bombs and blew up racism a while back," Merril explains blandly.

Krem shakes his head, chuckling. " _Gringos_ ," he jokes.

"I didn't take you for a racist," says Marian, coolly. "The color of my skin has nothing to do with my understanding of race, or of World War 2, and for the record, I have elf blood."

"Sure," says Krem, easily. "But being white informs a whole lot about your understanding of race. Just like being straight makes plenty of folks ignorant about gays."

"Homophobia is a very serious problem in this day and age," begins Marian.

"Not as serious as racism. Fewer of us queers than us browns. Harder to spot at twenty paces. Makes it easier to slip under the gaydar, so to speak."

"I get a lot more trouble over my ears than my sex likes," Merrill agrees with a nod. "It would take some horrific surgery or rituals to hide my race. All I have to do to hide my sex likes is not tell anyone."

"Come on, nobody's openly racist anymore. Half my friends are brown!"

"Kirkwall, right? Half of _everybody's_ brown there, same as Tevinter. And it still don't make no difference. The whites have all the money, and the lighter you are, the further you go." Krem shrugs. "In the UP, it's worse. Whole cities where you don't see a single black face until you cross the tracks, then you see nothing but poverty."

"And Kirkwall has at least three alienages that I know of," the elf says quietly. "Oh, they're not called that, but everyone there is an elf, they're all poor and neglected and the government wants to ignore them or get rid of them. So. Alienages."

"Elf blood doesn't hold you back in Kirkwall," insists Marian. "My father's part elf."

"So you keep saying. He doesn't look it, which helps. Skin tans in the summer, unlike Merrill's. Ears are a little tapered, maybe, but yours aren't. Slim build, just like supermodels. No hips on you, small tits, those are elfy I reckon, but if that's all it takes I'm an elf."

Marian puts a hand across her chest, paling a bit. "They're plenty big, thank you!"

"Bigger'n hers," agrees Krem. "But that's my point. Nobody'd clock you for an elf. You pass. She doesn't. Of course they treat her different." He shrugs.

"You have elf blood, I won't argue that." Merrill braces herself, knowing Marian won't like hearing this. "And your father probably did get trouble for being part elf. But you can pass. You were born with money and power protecting you. You have elf blood, but you've ever lived as an elf."

"I never said I did, but if you think I didn't get shit because of my dad, you've got another thing coming," Marian snaps. "There are rich elves."

"It's— when you try to refute something as being racism, or even the possibility of racism existing as a problem by saying 'but I'm a elf and I don't have that problem' then you are saying that. You're saying that all other elves must have had a life like yours."

"Not every elf had a life like yours, either. And there's more to you than being an elf— maybe people just don't like you?"

"Nah. Plenty of people are racist. Dalish gets it all the time, too, and Skinner." Krem shrugs. "Believe it or don't, but it's true. You're white, and they're not. They see things you don't. Take it or leave it."

"Some people don't like me just because of me," Merrill agrees. "I doubt the entire Sabrea Clan save Keeper Marethari were racist against their own race. I mean, possible I guess but unlikely?"

"It sounds like it," growls Marian. "Nobody should be telling anyone they're worthless. It doesn't matter what you've done or not done. Even my idiot brother's a person."

"People can be..." Merrill licks her lips. "They're good people. I just— never fit in. Never proved myself. But I will, and it'll be better."

"You shouldn't have to _prove yourself_ for your fucking _family_ to _love you_ , Merrill!" She hears it as soon as she's done speaking; she colors scarlet, then, and turns away. "Whatever, you win the bet, I need to get back to work."

"...I don't feel like I won something," Merrill says sadly, arms wrapped around her stomach.

Krem drapes his arm around her shoulder. "Come on. I'll make you some more coffee."


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marian's coming to grips with her own implicit racism and bias -- and not handling it the best. Will she figure out what she's done wrong before she puts her foot even further in her mouth? Stay tuned!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Greetings! Sorry it took so long to post this chapter; I got ill (thankfully not with Corona!) and then I was behind on work and church stuff for a while due to my illness. But I'm all better now, and as a special thank you, I've done a double update today. But where's the second update, you ask? Why, I've begun posting the next volume of Hotheads, Issues! You can find it over at https://archiveofourown.org/works/23265097/chapters/55713313 . Issues takes place concurrently with Thorns, so we've decided to upload the two concurrently, matching up chapters so that you don't get any spoilers for one or the other. Please subscribe to both fics! I hope you're enjoying the story so far! 
> 
> CW: bad family dynamics, sex talk, racism, implied (offscreen) torture

Marian doesn't speak another word about race, accomplishments, or titles the whole way back to Deception Station; when they arrive, shortly after the dinner hour, instead of going to serve herself a bowl of leftover chili, she instead heads to bang on the door to the bunk Lysas, her intern, shares with Clemence.

When he answers, she doesn't waste time on greetings. "Are people on this trip racist against elves?"

The elf stares blankly at her for a moment, mouth slightly parted from the greeting she just nuked out of his mind. He swallows abruptly, eyes slipping to stare over her shoulder. "Umm, well, that— that is— no, of course not. Ma'am. Sir."

"Ma'am. I'm a woman. You can tell me, I understand these things. I'm a lesbian myself, I get it." She frowns.

Lysas's mouth twists a little before he blanks it. "I have nothing to complain about," he says, a little too carefully.

"Come on, Lysas, it's _me_. I need to know who's giving you— and Merrill and, Dalish, and what was the other Charger elf's name again? Whatever— I need to know who's giving all of you trouble so I can handle the problem. If it's just the Templar I can't do much but if there's other researchers..."

He hesitates a second, then two, but then shakes his head. "Everything is perfectly normal ma'am. Doctor Janar is a great advisor, I have no complaints." He pauses. "Well. None you don't have I figure," he adds with a more normal grin. "How _do_ you get her to go to bed? I tried while you were gone but she, umm, proved resistant."

"I take her pencil," she confides. "Fine, if you haven't noticed anything I'll ask the Chargers. Or that Yang girl, I bet she's noticed. Dagna wouldn't notice an earthquake if it happened while she was working, but that Luka Yang seems intelligent, I bet she's noticed."

"As you say ma'am. I'll give that pencil thing a shot next time," he replies with a nod, though the skin around his eyes seems tight. "If there's nothing else?"

Marian frowns, studying his face. "You know you can come to me, right? If anyone's giving you trouble, for _any_ reason? After all, us Arcane Studies folks have to stick together. There's too many gravediggers on this trip as it is."

He smiles faintly. "It's fine ma'am. I know I'm lucky to have gotten this slot."

"I don't know anything about that," she says, scowling. "You do good work. I wasn't going to leave you behind for, who, someone else's grad student? Clemence and I have the bases covered."

"The posting didn't go into details but anything that gets both Doctor Janar and the Wi— um, Doctor Korcari both? That's the sort of thing that could give an undergrad a future. I know there were a _lot_ of applicants. Not as many if, ah, certain other details were different but still. I'm not going to ruin this chance."

"If someone's giving you a hard time, _they're_ the one ruining the chance, not you. It's my job to make sure things run smoothly, and that includes handling this sort of thing," she argues, scowling.

Another slightly delayed headshake. "There's nothing to handle. It's fine." A pause. "Please, ma'am."

"I know there's _something_ , Dr Sabrae was bitching about it earlier. But if nobody's been bothering you, that's fine. I'll just keep asking. Have a good evening, Lysas."

Frowning, she turns to continue down the hall, hoping Luka is in. She isn't, but Skinner is, when Marian continues on looking for someone to talk to her about race.

"Racist? Yeah, basically everyone."

"What do you mean everyone?" demands Marian.

"All _shem_ are racist, _Shemlen_."

"I'll have you know, I'm part elf," Marian snaps.

"My mistake, _harellan_. Did you need something?"

Marian scowls, not sure what that word means but not liking Skinner's tone. "I'm trying to figure out who's been giving Merrill trouble."

"You," says Skinner, eyes boring into Marian's until the mage looks away.

"I've been nothing but kind to her," she says, shifting uncomfortably.

"Just like every other _shem_ walking into the alienage— you expect us to bow down and praise you for not raping us. We done here?"

Marian leaves the conversation unsettled, and worried about the origin of Skinner's nickname. She lets herself into the room she shares with Dagna, a frown still on her puzzled face.

"Hey have you seen my jacket?" Dagna's voice comes from under Marian's bed, muffled and accompanied by rustling noises. "Marian? Was that you?"

"You left it in the mess hall coat rack last night," says Marian, absently. "Am I racist?"

"I was at the mess last night? Huh. Oh, uh, yeah, of course, it's a constant." She start wriggling herself out from under the bed. "Did I eat?"

"You ate lunch. What do you mean, it's a constant?"

"Huh. Good for me, I guess? Everyone is racist. Humans are typically the worst but dwarves and Qunari are pretty bad too. Outside of Russia and parts of Africa, elves don't have enough systematic power to be racist, just bigoted. Why did I leave my jacket there? Don't you normally remind me to get it?"

"I was busy and you didn't come outside today. I'm not fucking racist— I'm part elf, I can't be racist."

Dagna pauses as rises to her feet. "What? Why would that stop you? People hate and fear themselves all the time."

"Because I— Because I don't think elves are inferior, that's why!" She blinks, frowning.

Dagna cocks her head, then shrugs. "Conflicts with observed behavior but I can't say what you feel so whatever. I was going to go test the atmospheric analysis doohickey, wanna help? Luka said something about it getting weirdness."

"No, hang on, what observed behavior?!"

"Wellllll." Dagna hums softly. "I'd say the big one is that you dismiss lifestyles and life paths that don't match yours. Like with this actually. You assume that because you, an elf-blood, didn't get a lot of over racism directed at them that anyone claiming otherwise is wrong. You also have a habit of assuming that elves are either magicals or menials, with nothing in between. I mean, _statistically_ , in most nations, you're not wrong in that, but that's still racist."

"What do you mean, different life paths? There's obviously the right way to go about things and the wrong way."

"According to your standards maybe, but you're not the Maker or the stone or an Evanuris so..." Dagna shrugs. "You can be wrong. And for most people, you are. I wouldn't judge my life a success if I succeeded by your standards, I have my own standards."

"But like, okay, so a bunch of elves don't go to college," she points out. "And then they're shut out from jobs that require a degree. And then they complain they don't make as much money. But isn't it their fault, for not going to college? There's a real easy fix and they just don't want to do it."

"How?" Dagna asks curiously.

"What do you mean how? The same way everyone else does."

"Well, how did you do it?"

"I earned a scholarship. You know that." She scowls. "I worked really hard, got myself a scholarship, went to Kirkwall U, flew through my requirements, spent all summer and winter terms taking advanced classes, and was accepted to graduate studies here early."

"And you got that scholarship because you had the benefit of a wonderful primary education. You're brilliant, sure, but without having been taught, can you honestly say you'd have done nearly as well? Most elves are homeschooled. Which, given their parents are also homeschooled, well. " Dagna shrugs again. "Plus, let's be honest. You're an Amell. You could have gotten in with grades half as good as you have. I know I got 'advised' to take you on, I'm sure other teachers did too."

"Wait, what?" Marian blinks. "You didn't take me because of my work?"

"Sorta?" Dagan says, blushing. "I, uh, might not have checked my email before I had my first interview with you. Or the second." Which was four days later. "But the Dean came by after and had a word. I was probably going to take you anyway but the extra grant money didn't hurt." She offers a smile. "Totally not about the grant money now, seriously. You're the best assistant I've ever had."

Marian stares at her, mouth open, speechless. Somewhere in the back of her mind something clicks, and a whole bunch of things she's been trying not to think about spill forth into her mind: the fact her twin should, by rights, have flunked several classes, but he'd bribed her to do his work for him, keeping his grade above the pass mark; the fact she'd had the funds to go to private tutors when she'd been stumped, or the part where her little siblings had been sent to private school; the fact she'd never had to work during high school like some of her classmates, the part where she'd been offered an alumni scholarship if she'd attended her mother's alma mater in the UP, the part where she'd never been turned away from the schools or classes she'd wished to attend, not once.

 _But I'm brilliant_ , she reminds herself. _And I work my **ass** off. I deserve this position_.

But Garrett isn't brilliant. And he rarely works half as hard as she does. And yet, in the end, he's the one given prestige and money and a gilded path to success. _It's almost like how hard I work and how smart I am aren't what matters as much as his knowing the right people, being the Chosen Son, sucking up to our grandparents._

"But..." she begins, hesitantly, most of the fire gone from her voice.

Dagna's face softens. "Hey, it's not your fault. It's all part of the world, it's been like this forever. And you're mostly nice about it. I mean, you don't really mean to be racist and you're not cruel. It's just, yanno, there."

Marian is quiet a moment, swallowing a few times. "How do I... how do I _not_ be racist, then?" she asks, quietly. "I can't change what my family does or anything like that..."

"Well, like I said, your big one— well, the big one I noticed, but you don't really do it to me so your best-best bet is to ask someone that you've been racist to— but my best answer is about the big thing I noticed. The 'my life ain't that so yours can't be either' thing? Stop doing it basically." The Shir—n offers a tentative smile, hoping to be supportively firm or something.

"Okay," she says quietly. "I— I'm going for a walk. I hope you find your jacket."

So saying, Marian flees the room, staring straight ahead, trying to force the tears back long enough to get outside before she loses control.

* * *

"I am unable to assist in this matter." The words, toneless and bland, catch Marian's attention. She's calmed down, mostly, the initial burst of emotions dulling to a funk after a long, cold walk. A glance to the side shows Flemeth and Morrigan facing one the other grad student from the Arcane History department, Clemence. His expression is unruffled and stoic, but given that he's a Tranquil, that hardly means anything.

Not looking at Clemence, Felemth's lip curls up. "Well I hardly care if you can or cannot help, I still need the task accomplished now don't I? If not by one present, than another." She addresses her comment more to her daughter than him.

"Who has the authority to make you assist in this, Tranquil?" demands Morrigan, scowling.

Marian slows her walk, spying the group clustered just outside the door to the barracks. _Great. Just what I wanted to deal with: Morrigan and her mother. And the creepy one._

Clemence blinks slowly. "I report to Doctor Janar directly. The Chancellor, Vice Chancellor, Division head, Department Dean, the—"

"Where is Dagna?" asks Flemeth, again to Morrigan.

"I do not know," Clemence replies.

 _Fuck_ , Marian thinks, as she sighs. "Dagna's in her room, Dr Korcari. Can I assist?"

"Yes," snaps Morrigan. "Please tell this... this _automaton_ to release the test data my mother asked for."

"Miss Amell," Clemence says in way of greeting. He, like most of the Tranquil that attend or work for Oxford, were required to attend an intake course that established 'rules for basic conduct' such as giving greetings and say thank you for assistance. They used to try and get them to smile but that got complaints from the student body; 'horror movie smiles' was the most common phrase used. "I was not given permission to release data to another department."

"Well, on behalf of Professor Janar, I grant you blanket permission to share data obtained during the course of this expedition with any member of the Arcane History department present on this expedition, during the expedition and after its conclusion. Oh, and Mer— Professor Sabrae as well. Understand?" _He gives me the willies_ , she thinks, trying to suppress a shudder. _Those vacant eyes— what would it have been like to look into Garrett's eyes, so like mine, and see nothing behind them?_

Clemence seems to consider that for a moment. "I am required to have that in writing."

 _Oh for fuck's sake_ , the graduate student thinks with a scowl. "Fine, we'll go back to my room and I'll jot it down for you. Then you can grab the data and take it to... Flemeth, I assume?"

Flemeth mostly hides the shudder. "Not at all— I would prefer to simply get the information from you directly, Miss Amell. I only approached this thing because I could not find you or Doctor Janar." Clemence doesn't so much as bat an eye at her response.

"I wasn't allowed in the bubble," she says with a scowl. "Whatever you had him collect is in his notes, not mine. I have my own work to get done tonight."

Flemeth's eyes narrow. "I will not— fine. Morrigan, I want the information by dinner. See to it."

"What am _I_ meant to do with this _thing_?" demands Morrigan. "I'm not your student any longer, Mother, you cannot simply order me to do the grunt work you find distasteful!"

"True, I am no longer your teacher." Flemeth smiles coldly. "But I am your boss. So yes, I can."

"Have one of the TAs do it," she replies, with a scowl. "Isn't that what grad students are _for_?"

Marian flinches, pushing past the pair. "Right. I'll let you two— three— sort that out, Clem, stay there while I get your orders."

"Understood, Miss Amell," the Tranquil human says easily.

"They are even less competent than you. And you are here," Flemeth says with a careless gesture.

"Perhaps I shan't be," says Morrigan, as Marian departs. "Perhaps someday soon I won't be, and then you'll have to do your own dirty work, Mother dear. I wonder how you'll cope without a patsy to do your grunt work?"

As the closing door cuts off the rest of their conversation, Marian lets out a sigh of relief. _As bad as my mother is, at least she's not my boss. What a nightmare._

* * *

Sleep is elusive that night; Marian wakes starving— having never made it to the mess hall the night before— and exhausted. She dresses quickly, not bothering to wake Dagna yet, and slips off to the mess hall, thankful her hair is too short to need much fussing over. _I still can't get used to it being so dark at all hours._

Her tray laden with oatmeal topped with nuts and sugar, she scans the hall, looking for a place to sit. Merrill, alone at her table in the corner, stands out; Marian hesitates, almost ready to go sit somewhere else just to avoid the conversation she knows is coming. _But then, who else sits with her? She sits alone, at the table in the corner, every meal that Iron Bull isn't around for. Isn't it racist to avoid her?_

Chewing her bottom lip, Marian heads for the table, pausing behind one of the seats a few down from Merrill. "Is this seat taken?"

Merrill's head snaps up from the book she had been reading, eyes wide and posture rigid. Not quite bracing for a blow but close. A second later she seems to recognize the speaker and relaxes. "Marian. I— sorry, I was— what did you need?" she stammers, sounding much younger than she usually does, her Elven accent overtaking the faint Russian accent she normally has.

"Nothing, I'm sorry, I just— I wanted to know if— if you wanted company, was all." Are her eyes a bit puffy? It's hard to tell; there's bags under them from lack of sleep, but there's something about her voice, the hitch in it, that suggests she might have been crying earlier.

Merrill clears her throat, back straightening as her posture shifts. "Yes, of course," she says in her normal voice. Though now that's she heard otherwise, it's easy to hear the faint notes of elvish coloring nearly every word. Merrill studies Marian for a moment as the human takes her seat. "Is... everything okay?"

"...of course," she says, her tone a bit bitter. "Everything's always alright for me. I'm an Amell." She takes a deep breath, lets it out. "And... and I owe you an apology. I didn't realize... I've been an ass."

Merrill gapes her, her eyes inhumanly wide and clear.

Marian looks down at her oatmeal, prodding it with a spoon. "I was... unaware of some things that.. changed my outlook," she admits. "I still don't really get it, but I shouldn't have told you your experience wasn't valid. I'm sorry."

Merrill swallows thickly. "I... I think that's the first time anyone has ever apologized to me for their behavior," she says in a light daze. "Thank you. That means a lot to me. Thank you."

Marian glances up at her, surprised. "What, really?" About to argue, she changes her tactic mid-stream: "That's awful, I'm sorry."

"I mean, I've gotten apologies for like being bumped into in a crowd or fake ones from when people would spill things on me or my stuff or— Other things. Sure. But never, like, a real apology for something significant." Merrill shakes her head. "It feels really weird. Nice. Warm. A little scary."

Marian nods, her attention going back to her oatmeal. "I'm not usually this... stressed. I can handle the work, and the organizing and stuff, but I guess... Just before we left, I got word that my twin was in some trouble, and it keeps popping into my mind at weird moments. I think I'm handling it badly. I think it's making me crueler than usual. So I'm really sorry I was mean to you. You're a good person, Merrill of Tribe Sabrae, and I shouldn't have shouted."

Impulsively, Merrill reaches across the table to take Marian's hand. "You're a brilliant person, Marian of Clan Amell. You smarter than me and twice as educated. I'm sorry I haven't given you the respect you deserve, title or no fancy title. Which you also deserve."

"Thanks," she replies, her voice thick, and she uses her free hand to wipe the fresh tears from her eyes. "We'll see. I— it turns out Dagna was paid to take me on. So maybe I'm not as brilliant as I think I am."

Merrill makes a rude nose with her lips. "I've worked with you, it's pretty darn clear how smart you are. You picked up the foundation for that spirit ward in like two hours. I had to teach a professor at Cambridge once and it took him ten hours. Well. Eight hours, if you discount the time he spent hitting on me and staring at my crotch," she mutters.

Marian snorts. "Men are awful. That's why I'm a lesbian."

"I'm sure some of them are nice," Merrill says, more hopeful than certain. "Oh! Bull is a sweetie. He's flirty but he's been very respectful about it. It's kind of fun, though I'm not very good at it. And Krem is nice too."

"I guess Bull's okay," she says, hesitantly. "I don't know. He's attractive enough. But I don't date men anymore. My twin's bad enough without another man in my life, you know?"

 _More attractive than Tomil was, that's for sure_. "I suppose?" She sounds a bit wistful. "What was it like?" Realizing that she wasn't very clear, she adds, "having a twin? A sibling, a family?"

"It's.... different," she says, slowly. "My twin is... when we were little, we were real close. Mirrors, you know— before puberty we looked similar. Acted similar, too. We were always competing, he and I. Oldest children, you know. Always competing to see who could get better grades, race faster on our bikes, build bigger sand castles at the beach... Mother would always be the judge, but she liked Garrett better, so when I could I'd get Father to judge us. At least he'd be fair. But then, I don't know. We grew apart. Garrett stopped doing so well at school, but he did better and better in Mother's eyes. After I came out as bisexual, she stopped pretending to love us the same at all. I was the bad child, the wicked one who would be cast away from the Maker, and he was her precious baby boy." She shrugs. "So I stopped trying to please her."

Merrill had smiled at the beginning, but by the end her eyes are wet. "I'm sorry. It sounds like you miss them. Not now-them but childhood-them." _Bi means two, so... two sexual?_ "You deserved better than to be abandoned."

Again, Marian has to look at her oatmeal to get a hold of her tears. "It's fine," she says, her voice a bit thick. "I manage. I've always been very self-sufficient anyway. I got a scholarship, my full ride was paid at Kirkwall U, and I flew through the curriculum in three years flat. Graduated and got accepted right away to Oxford— my twin is still working on that undergrad six years in, while I'm about to get my doctorate after this expedition. Someday I'll be famous and they'll wish they'd kept me around, but I won't need them. I don't need anyone."

"You could go live in the woods and not need anyone," Merrill points out gently. "It sounds like you want them to accept you, just like me."

"I want revenge," she admits. "And the best revenge is a life well lived. So fuck them."

The elf's smile turns sad and a bit self-depreciating. "Sometimes, I wish I was that strong."

"Well hey, maybe you can be my assistant," she jokes. "Learn from the best. And I'll learn that spirit ward from you."

"Actually... I was kind of wondering, if— well, I don't like being— I want to avoid slipping back into a doctor-student mindset so maybe we could trade? Spirit magic for English lessons?" Merrill offers with a tentative smile.

"Sure. I can do that."

Looking relieved that her offer was taken the way she hoped, Merrill smiles broadly. "Great! Do you have any free time today?"

"Marian! Where— ah!" Hurrying across the room, Dagna beelines right for her. "Hey, good news, you're not crazy. Oh, you neither Doctor Sabrea."

Marian stares at Dagna. "Nuh-uh. Grab oatmeal first, then explain," she orders.

"What?" Dagna stares a moment. "Oh. Right. Food. I just ate, didn't I?"

"It's morning— are you thinking of dinner?" Merrill asks, hiding a smile.

"I keep telling you, you have to use a watch to tell the time, your internal clock's going to be wrong," Marian adds. "Especially with no sun."

A pause. "Ah. Back in a minute?" Without another word, Dagna's off.

Marian smiles a little, and uses the few moments to tuck into her own breakfast.

"...why did she think we might be crazy?" Merrill wonders.

Marian flinches. "I have no idea. But I'm sure she'll tell us, and she'll get all excited and run off, and forget to eat again, if I let her."

As Merrill gives Marian a concerned look, not liking that flinch, Dagna returns with a heaping pile of eggs and a mound of sausages. Seeing Marian's look, she says quickly, "there's peppers in the eggs and I got apple juice. Totally healthy."

"Fine, fine," she relents. "But eat at least a third of that before you explain why I'm not crazy."

Dagna pouts a little but tucks in, eating with unseemly haste. Mouth still fill of eggs, she takes a long swallow of juice and swallows. "Finished going over Orange's data from yesterday. Evidently Rocky got 'bad-touched' by your ghost so, congrats, you did in fact see a Fade Ghost."

"Wait what? That's not uh, that's not what bad touch means, I hope. I pray. Please be misusing that phrase."

"He was pissing," Dagna says cheerfully. "Orange was just a bit away and came over in time to see it after the screams started."

"Umm." _Who is Orange? I don't remember anyone named that with us..._ wonders Merrill.

Marian's jaw drops, and her shoulders and neck tighten as she suppresses a shudder, hands balling into fists and moving away from her sides. "Maker! That's the most disturbing thing I've ever heard in my _life_! And Clem was the one who— Maker!" Now the shudder forces its way down her back as she pictures being that vulnerable around the creepy Tranquil.

"Is it? Sounds _fascinating_ to me," Dagna replies with a slight frown. "Could you imagine? The penis is very sensitive so he must have gotten very good tactile feedback—"

"H-hey! Let's not think about Rocky's penis, that's private!" Marian says, far too loudly.

"It's _science_!" Dagna cries out excitedly.

"What's this about Rocky's dick now?" asks Krem, taking his tray in their direction rather than toward where Bull is just sitting down on the other side of the mess hall.

"Hey, if you need a cock for science," Iron Bull calls out. "As long as I get to keep it after, you can test mine out."

"Deal!"

Marian hides her face in her palm. "I hate all of you," she mutters.

"Is this about sex?" Merrill asks in a loud whisper. "Or are we still talking about research?"

"I'm a lesbian!" says Marian, through her palm.

"You could do science with me?" Merrill offers with a red face.

"It would be better if we had multiple data points from multiple body types. So we have male qunari and dwarf, female elf, human and dwarf..." Standing up, Dagna calls out, "we need a male elf willing to offer their penis to science!!"

"No we don't!" shouts Marian, jumping up to shove Dagna back into her seat. "What science are you even planning to do, because I am _not_ letting a Fade Ghost finger me!" she hisses, softer this time.

"Err, well, there are other sensitive spots on a body," Dagna offers weakly, her brain catching back up to her excitement. "Nipples and, uh, lips?"

"How about hands?" Merrill suggests, still blushing from her clumsy flirting.

"How about instruments! We can have the ghost touch instruments! And then I don't have to report you for sexually harassing our technicians!" hisses Marian.

"But it's not the same as touching it," Dagna grumbles, pouting. "Real science can be touched, put in your mouth, experienced."

"You're a kinky one, ain'tcha?" The Iron Bull says with approval, having coming up next to Krem.

"What's kinky mean?" Merrill asks Marian in a whisper.

"Dagna, I will call your girlfriend and tell her you're cheating on her with a Fade Ghost, so help me," warns Marian.

"We each get a freebie when I have to go on long trips," Dagna says with a shrug. "And I think a Fade Ghost would count as a sex toy? It's not a person after all."

"Sex... toy?" Merrill repeats slowly. _That's a new expression, though I guess..._ She blushes again as she works out the rather obvious definition.

"No, it's got Drass' face so it's basically like fucking him, and I think your girlfriend would be disappointed to know you're riding the Fade cock carousel without her."

Krem makes an odd face at that. _The hell? She been hanging out on those Incel forums?_

"But it's not a _person_. I mean, we have dildos of famous people but it's not like we've fucked them," Dagna reasons.

"What's a dill-doe?" Merrill asks, getting more and more confused.

"A fake dick," Marian says. "Yeah but it's not Drass' _dick_ , it's like, his whole body and also maybe some of his mind? I'm not clear on how Fade Ghosts work. They're incredibly rare."

Dagna taps her chin, thinking that over, as Merrill's eyes widen. "Oh, a mullia." She looks at Marian, blushes, then looks at the table. _I wonder if she has one with her? Ugh, why is my brain doing that? Gah! Now I'm wondering what all the females brought with them?! Bad brain!_

"Huh. That's an interesting philosophical question. Way more interesting than most I've heard." The Iron Bull grabs a chair and spins it around to sit. "How would you know whether it's a person or just magic playing pretend? Sounds creepy as fuck."

Krem puts his tray beside Bull's, sliding into a chair. "No way it's actually him. Don't dead humans all go to the Maker, like dwarves to the Stone? Seems more like an echo. Like a dream."

"Sure, but it's like the classic Ghost in the Machine, right?" offers Marian. "Say you take a computer and you program it to simulate someone's brain exactly, neuron for neuron. It's a program, but it's also them. Is it a person? Does it have a soul? Can it access the Fade? Nobody knows, because nobody's written software that can simulate a human brain yet."

Merrill lets out a soft noise, looking disgusted, as her brain finally lets go of thoughts of sex toys. "Of course it wouldn't be! Only the gods could create life," she protests.

Almost at the same time, Dagna blurts out, "I know a few people working on that actually— like you said, if we can get skilled enough to duplicate it entirely, why not? I mean, we've already learned how to offload thoughts into implants, why not entire brains?"

"Right, right, of course," says Marian, "but then, maybe the Maker would send it a soul, just like if you made a baby? Or maybe it wouldn't be able to access the Fade— maybe it'd be a— uh, Tranquil," she says, glancing at Dagna.

Merrill opens her mouth, then closes it. "That..." She frowns, clearly thinking it over.

"Could be a dwarf— I mean, let's be honest, that's who they'd try it with first. I'd upgrade my brain meats to brain metals if I thought the tech was ready," Dagna says eagerly.

"Sure, but what if they tried it with a human or an elf? Or could they? Maybe when the program reaches out for the Fade, it'll break the machine, and the thing would be doomed? Who knows?" She leans back a bit, smirking slightly. "Maybe that's what I'll do when I have my degree. I'll go into implant tech."

"What if it does fail? If all it creates are... half-finished elves and humans? Even Tranquil have souls, it's just been blocked from touching the Fade. If the Elvhenan— or Maker— don't provide a soul at all..." Merrill swallows thickly. "What do you do then? The tech already exists at that point."

"I'd test it long before anyone finds out— if it can't be done, I publish that and move on. But I'm betting it'd work, at least for Dwarves. Like Dagna said, they have microchips in their brains already, it's not that dissimilar." _And I'm not so certain Tranquil have souls. Not anymore. They're just the corpses of mages the Templar have tortured to death._

"How?" Dagna asks curiously. "That sort of discovery would be huge. You'd need help and funding, how would you keep it a secret?"

"My father managed it. Are you saying I'm less capable than he?"

"I thought your pops hooked up with the Amells to make his toys?" asks Bull.

"Sure, but they don't know how it's done. He's the only one who knows the secret. He's supposed to teach it to his heir once he decides who that is, or else he's got a contingency plan that will activate when he dies."

"Huh. Neat, but doesn't really answer her point," The Iron Bull points out. "He might have the plan but he couldn't have made it without their money, right?"

"Sure, but he kept it secret from the world. _Nobody_ knows how it's done. If he finds out tomorrow that making them accidentally kills Shirén or something, he can pull the plug and nobody can duplicate it. I'll just do the same thing— keep the technique secret until I'm sure it's not some nightmare scenario."

"If you slip and someone finds out, I can break their memory of it for you," Merrill offers, eyes set with determination. And evidently not bothered about revealing her ability with blood magic to everyone present.

"Uhhh." Dagna's eyes dart to Marian's, eyebrows going up.

"I'm contractually obligated to refuse that favor," says Marian.

"I could teleport rocks over their heads," Merrill counter offers. "That causes memory loss too, right?"

"If the rock is big enough," The Iron Bull says with a laugh. _Daisy has a bit of scary factor hidden in there._

"I think you'd be more useful on my research team— after all, we'll both be doctors then, and your knowledge of the Fade is clearly top notch." Marian smiles at Merrill.

The elf blushes, ducking her head. Dagna blinks, looking between the two for a moment. "Wait a minute— are you two..." She makes a rather crude gesture created with two 'okay' gestures.

Marian flushes. "No way! I'm way too focused on my studies to— look, do we have a plan for who we're sending in today yet, because this is way off topic."

Merrill mumbles 'maybe, working on it' to herself.

"Uhhh. Yes?" A pause. "I have a roster." Another pause. "Somewhere."

Laughing, The Iron Bull chimes in, "I have a copy too. Greaggie is still insisting on high security, so he wants groups to be a Templar, a Fade-blocked and a mage."

"Great," groans Marian. "Hopefully I'm with Dagna? No?"

"Yes actually; her and Greaggie. The others have to suffer lesser Templar. Korbin with Korcari, Clemence with Morrigan and Rocky with Merrill. But only two groups at a time, with the other two staying at that cave. You two and Morrigan's group are going in first," he explains. "Stitches and I will be at the cave the whole time."

"Well, I see why Dagna forgot," she jokes. "Can we bring the dogs? I'm curious what the ghost makes of them. Never did find the first one."

"Poor Nymeria," Merrill says sadly. At Dagna's blank look, she adds, "Mister Dennet names all the animals after animals in books he likes. The halla are named Atrax, Shadowfax, Misty, Faran, Condor and Peachbottom. The mabari—"

"I will remember none of that," Dagna declares, cutting the elf off. "I'll be honest, I know Marian's name, Flemeth's name and that's about it. Wait, no, I know Iron Bull. And Orange."

"Clem," corrects Marian. "I'll remember. How do you spell Shadowfax?"

" _The_ ," the qunari mutters as Marian corrects Dagna. " _The_ Iron Bull."

"Do you prefer The Iron Bull? Or Althawr Alhadidiu? Just Althawr?" asks Marian, turning to look at the Qunari.

He blinks, glancing at her. Then Merrill. _Yeah, they're going be banging by the end of this trip._ "Not bad for a western girl. You can call me Bull. No need to whip out the full thing unless you're looking to impress someone. Particularly if you're shouting it at night." He winks at her, grinning playfully.

"How many times do I have to— _lesbian_!"

"That's fine, I can work with that," Bull says cheerfully. "My pants can totally stay on. Or we can just banter and flirt like Daisy. Or less even. I'm easy. Seriously, a wink and a pint and I'm dtf."

Marian reddens. "I don't date men! At all! Ever!" She shakes her head. "No matter how attractive they are!"

"Doesn't that make you bi?" asks Krem, raising an eyebrow.

"I never said I wasn't, I'm a bi lesbian."

"Huh. Never heard of it before." Krem shrugs. "Learn something new every day."

"...you're... double lesbian?" Merrill asks, trying to puzzle that out.

"What? No. Bi is short for bisexual. In this case I'm attracted to both women and men. But I only date women, so I'm a lesbian. I'm not romantically attracted to men, just sexually, and I'm not one to let my pants control my brain, thank you."

"Ooooh, that's what bisexual means," Merrill says with a nod. She looks over at Iron Bull for a moment, expression curious. He smiles at her, flexing a little. "I think me too, about the sex part. I'm pretty sure...." She trails off, realizing almost too late that saying 'I would date anyone half nice to me' would be absolutely pathetic. Even if it's a proven truth.

"Pretty solidly lesbian myself," Dagna offers, amused at all the sharing, right before popping the last of her breakfast sausages into her mouth.

"Damn," says Krem, suddenly.

Merrill blinks, looking over at Krem. "It's okay, you can still eat at the lesbian table. We're letting Bull stay."

He shakes his head. "Nah, there's three lesbians at the table. Statistically speaking, one of you's a TERF."

Marian glances over at the Tevinter lad. "A what?"

"You know. Trans-exclusionary Radical Feminist. Those lesbians that don't think trans women are women."

Marian makes a face. "That's gross. Trans women are totally women. Unless they're not, I mean, it's their call really."

Krem raises an eyebrow. "They are. Otherwise they'd be something other than trans women."

"Hey, I don't tell anyone how to live their lives," says Marian, raising both her hands in a defensive gesture. "I'm a bi lesbian."

Merrill sighs, hating that she keeps not understanding so much.

"I don't think that's how language works though," Iron Bull says slowly. "I mean... 'trans-woman' literally means someone that decided they were female, right? So..."

"Wrong," corrects Marian. "Trans women are women who were assigned male at birth, which is to say, a doctor took a look in their diaper, decided that was a penis or close enough— some of them don't actually have penises, if they're intersex, they have something in between— and decided they were male. But when they were old enough, usually around age two or three, they realized they were girls instead of boys. They didn't decide to be female, they already were female, they just were assigned the wrong gender at birth."

"Okay, fair about the parts about being instead of decided. But my point is that they're woman. If they're not woman, they're not trans-woman."

 _Oh. Well, I guess that's what trans means. Huh. Neat._ Merrill smiles. "That's kind of neat. Why do tuffs hate them?"

"Some bullshit about them being men. But they're not." Krem shrugs. "No more than I'm a woman."

"I've never met a trans woman, but I've met trans men, and they're not women," agrees Marian.

"That you know of," Bull points out. "I've met and fucked both and at least half the time, I only found out after pants came off. Kind of cool actually, like having a surprise filling. Or that new fad, where you cook something that looks like something else? That shit's neat."

Not wanting to get involved in this conversation, Dagna rises. "Food get, work to do," she announces. "I'm off." _People can update their bodies if they want, but you are what you are, your body is what it is. Not that is really matters, just... definitions mean things, you can't just decide to reclassify yourself without changing your measurable qualities. Hmmm. You know, I wonder what would happen if we caused a matter state change in the time locked substances?_ Mind already forgetting the breakfast topic, Dagna wanders off.

Breakfast breaks up soon after that, as the various folks finish eating and head to grab their gear for the day. As they hike, Marian finds herself gravitating toward Merrill again, not in the least because she's holding the Mabari's leash.

"Hey," Merrill says brightly, a warm, welcoming smile on her lips. _She looks a bit better already. Still tired but lighter. It's kind of nice, in a sorta selfish way, to have a hint that our fight weighted on her too._

"Hey," says Marian, with a smile that helps her demeanor further. _Focus on now, don't get caught up in problems you can't solve._ "What's up?"

"Pakun here got into a fight with Beka, so Dennet asked me to take him along," Merrill confides, reaching down to pat the despondent looking canine. "And because he was the one being a bully, he has to stay on a leash. Mabari hate leashes. It's insulting, they're really smart." The mabari whines softly, giving Marian a pleading look.

"Poor thing," says Marian. "Still, leash laws are there for a reason. It's good for them to be contained just in case. I'd hate to see the poor dear get into a fight with a moose or a bear on accident."

Pakun's ears perk up and he licks his lips demonstrably. Merrill giggles a little. "I think he took that as a challenge," she says, grinning at her friend. "Soooo... tell me about you. Anything. Everything." The elf ducks her out at her blurted question, but doesn't try and take it back.

"What, like my work or..?"

"Everything." Merrill nods firmly. "We can trade questions or take turns or I dunno. But I want to get to know you more and more." She blushes a little. "I was, uh, serious about, ummm, doing science. With you. But. I want to know you more too."

Marian is quiet for a moment. "The thing is," she says slowly. "I meant it when I said I'm focused on my work. And... despite coming out of the closet, I've never actually dated a woman. Too busy. So I'd hate to have you be the first person to get the full brunt of my family's wrath, you know? I'd have no practice protecting you from them."

"What kind of wrath? I'm used to words. And it'll be easier, 'cause I miss a lot of the twisty insults if they're in English," Merrill says bravely.

"Like I said, I have no idea." She falls silent for a bit, brooding.

"Well, have they wrathed any of your sibling's girlfriends? Or boyfriends?" A pause. "Transfriends? Is that a thing?"

"Everyone else is straight, and Beth and Carver are too young to date," she says, with a shrug. "I can't recall Garrett bringing home any girlfriends, other than the one that got him in trouble recently."

"I guess your family isn't, ah, supportive about being bi lesbian?"

She gives a bitter laugh. "No. We're expected to marry and have children for the good of the family. Adoption doesn't count, apparently."

Merrill blows a raspberry, but her face takes on a melancholy expression soon after. "I want to adopt. I want to take in children that no-one else wants and love them."

"That makes sense," says Marian, nodding. "I don't know if I want kids, to be honest. I mean, I _want_ them, but, I don't want to be a shitty mother to someone, you know? I need to figure my shit out first."

Merrill nods slowly. "That's a good point," she admits. "I want my children to be able to have a home and a community, so I would need to, umm, well, have those first."

"I mean, you're welcome to move to Kirkwall if you want. I'm probably going to move back there after I get my degree." She shrugs. "Might be nice. You could get licensed for the blood magic and be totally legal."

"Would... would I have someone close to me there?" Merrill asks tentatively, eyes flicking to Marian. _All I have back with Sabrae is Elder Marethari and, well, I haven't spoken to her in almost five years. She could be... She could have already... She's very old. Is that really enough to come back for? I want to fix the Mirror. I need to, I can't give up after all I've done for it. But afterwards, do I really want to live with them, even if they do change?_

"Maybe," agrees Marian. "I mean, we only just met, but I do like you. You're... different, I guess, than other girls. I kind of like that."

"First time for everything," Merrill mutters in elven. "Sorry. Just... being different hasn't historically gone well for me. It's strange to hear otherwise." She smiles shyly. "Nice. Strange but nice."

Marian nods. "What was it like, growing up in a Dalish tribe?"

"For me or for your typical elf?"

"Either? Both?"

Merrill giggles. "Fair enough. Well... The Sabrae Clan is very traditional. We don't use any tech more advanced than steel. No electronics of any kind. No modern medicines; all healing is done with magic or herbalism. We don't use runes much either, though that's more about expense and lack of knowledge than dislike. We're nomadic, of course, following the snow halla herds and our traditional customs. Everyone has a true trade and a... not hobby, that sounds like it's just for fun. It is something that you enjoy, even if you're not very skilled but— See, your true trade is what you're best at that doesn't have enough people already doing it. It doesn't matter if you don't really like it, if it needs to be done, it needs to be done. But your other trade, your... other trade I guess, it's something you're at least okay at but that relaxes you. There's not a lot of leeway for pure entertainment, even your relaxation has to be productive. It's a hard life."

"It sounds like it," she agrees. "Do you prefer life in the city?"

"Somedays," Merrill says after a long moment of staring at the snowscape before them. "I miss this. The crisp air, the crunch of snow. The sounds of nature untainted by clacking and—" She waves a hand, not sure how to name the various sounds of a city. "And it's scary sometimes, having so many people I've never seen before around. Sabrae was small enough that I knew every single person there by name. Knew their families, knew their trades. I've had classes at Cambridge that had more people that I grew up with."

"Kirkwall isn't that small, but it's small enough. Much smaller than the UK as a whole, about the size of Cambridge. And the mountain is mostly park land, you can go camping there and get away from the city for a while. No snow, though. And no halla."

"You'd be surprised, halla can hide very well. I'm sure there's at least sea-halla seasonally. But... the rest of that sounds nice. How about you?"

"I've always lived in cities when I wasn't researching," says Marian, with a shrug.

"Oh, sorry, I meant growing up. What's it like growing up as an Amell that is."

"It's... different," she says slowly. "There's... it's hard to describe but there's a dichotomy, I suppose. There's levels of trust, and levels of decorum. There's just us kids, when we're out doing things in the world, that's just like anyone else really. When you're playing footy with your siblings and their friends, nobody cares who anyone is. But then there's parents, and their expectations for you. And there's the grandparents, with their expectations. I can wear jeans at home, but I can't cuss in front of Mother, and I have to wear a dress if I'm visiting Gramma and Poppy. I have to wear a dress for a fancy dinner, or for an award banquet, or anywhere Mother and Father are going to be on display or recognized. It's stifling."

"It's different rules, and different pain but I get having different expectations for different people. Before I was a woman, I lived with different families. Just for a season each and they all had different rules. That was... hard. But I think it was worse for you, because they were all family and all at the same time. I mean... I could— had to— forget the rules after I was passed on to another family. You had to switch back and forth over and over again."

Marian nods. "The rules were mostly around... denying yourself. Not being who you were. I decided I can't do that. When my brother came out, and the grandparents rejected him, it really made me think. I realized I can't spend my life trying to be someone I'm not for someone who will never approve of me anyway. So that's why I don't really have family anymore. I filter all their emails and read them when I can handle it, when I have time and energy for them, and then I shut the folder and walk away and never think about them again."

"Came out of what?" Merrill asks, sympathy bringing tears to her eyes as she tries to focus on the less personal aspect of Marian's words. Or so she thinks anyway.

"The closet. Metaphorically. He's— we used to think he was a girl, but he's not."

"Why— oh, the trans thing from this morning," she says, eyes filling with understanding. "And your grandparents are, umm, terfs?"

"Something like that," she says, her smile turning a bit cold. "They still don't know I'm a lesbian. Mother is half-convinced they'll have twin heart attacks and die. They keep trying to set me up with men. So I stopped coming home. So they gave my inheritance to my twin instead."

"...we could have sex in front of them. That would probably do it," Merrill offers, mostly joking. Only mostly, because they couldn't do it sooner than three weeks from now at the earliest and that might just be enough time.

Marian coughs to hide her laughter. "Let's not kill my grandparents," she chokes.

"They seem more like enemies than grandparents," Merrill mutters darkly. "I could teleport fleas onto them? Or poo. You'd be surprised on how useful teleporting is for revenge and, ummm, jokes that humiliate people?"

"I'm sure I would," she chuckles. "What's your best prank?"

 _Prank. Got it_. "Ummm. Well, I teleported a chicken into a lady's skirt once. A live one I mean. That was pretty entertaining," Merrill muses. "But most elaborate? Well, if you do some preparation with runes and such— and, ah," she glances around, "have enough power to pull it off, you can teleport items remotely on a cue. Before I got to Cambridge, I spent a year studying at a smaller university in Russia and one of the grad students had a habit of pressing elves for services in exchange for protection. His father was someone important or something. So I snuck around the woman's dorms, including the professors, and runed all their underwear. Then I teleported them into his room, just in time for his fianc— to find."

Marian whistles. "That's a good one. He get dumped?"

"Out the window," Merrill says with a nod. "Her mindblast was pretty good." She cocks her head as she ponders the dates. "He's probably still in jail, unless he got parole."

"Good." Marian nods. "Sometimes you have to bend the rules to do the right thing." _Or break them entirely._

"It was educational too. I had no idea there were so many kinds of underwear," Merrill says brightly. "Did you know they make underwear out of straps? And edible underwear? And ones without anything over your crotch? And ones that have a dildo attached to them? Facing in and facing out."

Marian coughs again. "I did, yes. Thongs. Edible underwear. Crotchless panties. And strap-ons."

Merrill nods, squinting a little as she tries to memorize the new words. "I ended up getting the thong ones but they're not as comfortable as you might think so now I wear ones that have the little triangles in the front and back." She looks a little guilty, then adds in a whisper, "And they have lace on them. It's very wasteful, it's not like anyone's ever seen them but me but they look so— so— delicate and nice that I couldn't stop myself."

"Yes, that's— that's fine," says Marian, her throat a bit tight. "Well, mostly it's not... this is technically work hours, you see."

Merrill frowns a little. "...am I not allowed to wear lace panties during work? They're all I have but I guess I could just not wear any at all. Not like they provide much warmth."

"I mean," she coughs. "we're not meant to be discussing panties at work. Haven't you had sensitivity training yet?"

Merrill blushes deeply. "Umm. I don't think I need it, I'm pretty sensitive already," she admits in a low whisper. _Wait, that doesn't make sense with the other thing she said._

"Um, no, sorry, it's for, uh, getting along better at work, not pissing people off." She rubs the back of her neck.

Merrill looks confused and a little worried. "I— I'm sorry, I didn't mean to..."

"No, no, it's just, you know, talking about sex stuff at work can make some people feel harassed. Or whatever. It's fine."

"Didn't we talk about sex a bunch this morning?" she asks, bewildered.

"That was breakfast," she says, nodding. "Breakfast is breaktime."

"Oh. So we can talk about sex when we're on break?" Merrill asks, her tone not flirtatious but simply that of someone trying to understand the rules. "But not while we're working, even if we're not doing any actual work?"

"You know, it's been a while since I did the training, I'm not sure I'm summarizing it well," says Marian.

Merrill shrugs, then confesses, "as long as I'm not making _you_ feel harassed, I don't really care about the training thing."

"I, uh, I would prefer not to think about sex right now." _Damn you, hormones!_

Merrill bites her lip. "...can I ask why?" she asks meekly.

 _Because my panties are already damp and they're going to freeze that way_. "It's— it's distracting."

"Distractions can be annoying," Merrill allows, frowning slightly. "Especially when you're trying to focus on stuff. Umm. What would you like to talk about instead then? Did you mind talking about family?"

"Family's... fine. Familiar, at least."

Merrill beams at Marian, clearly relieved. "Sorry. I'm not very good at talking to people. I have trouble realizing when I annoy them. Or bore them. Or distract them evidently. Umm. If I... do any of that, just tell me? Please don't be mean about it, just... let me know and I'll stop."

"Sure, of course," she says, rubbing the back of her neck again. "I guess you probably want to know about my idiot twin brother?"

"You've talked about him a bit already. But aside from your other brother not being in a closet anymore and forbidding me from having sex with your sister, I don't know anything about them." _Well, aside from what her breasts look like._

"Oh, alright. Well. The twins are Beth and Carver, they're sixteen now. Almost seventeen really. Beth likes to act, and Carver likes sports. They go to boarding school most of the year, so I barely ever see them."

"What kind of school? Are they nice? Are they smart like you? Or are they lazy like your other brother?"

"I'm not sure," she admits. "I don't really look at their report cards."

"What's a boarding school? What're they like? Nice?" That last is rather hopefully asked.

"A boarding school is a school where you live there— like college, but for younger kids. They're nice, mostly. Carver's... a bit quiet, at least at home. He must be different at school; he gets in trouble for fighting every now and again. Beth's sassy, she uses words instead. They're both good kids, though. Just... I think it's hard for them, being away at school so much."

"They sound much better than your evil grandparents. What about your dad?"

"...we don't talk much," she says quietly. "He's brilliant. And focused. Driven. And he doesn't have time for kids."

"That sounds... sad. There's no point to doing wonderful things if your history ends with you," Merrill says quietly.

"Well, that's why he had us. Now that I'm grown, he'll have to pay more attention to me."

"It, umm, it doesn't really sound like your family is actually a family. At all. Just kind of relates. Almost accidentally."

"That's pretty apt, yeah," she admits. "I suppose Mother and Uncle Gamlen get along great."

"That's really sad. They're the only two that get along?" _Families can be just as painful as not having family._

"I mean, Beth and Carver are inseparable. But Garrett and I used to be, too, and we're nothing alike now."

"Because he started slacking and you needed to win so your parents would care about you," Merrill says with perhaps too much honesty.

"Because he's an _idiot_. And I'm not."

The elf nods, then agreeably repeats her answer with the correction. "Because he's an idiot and you need to win so your parents will love you again."

"It's not— I need to win if I'm going to become my father's heir and take over the company. Nothing will make them love me again."

Merrill frowns. "Then why..?. Revenge?" she guesses.

"Kind of. But I just... I want to be famous. I want to be powerful. I don't want to be what they predicted I'd be."

"I can understand wanting to be strong enough that people can't hurt you again. And... and not wanting to be what the people that hurt you called you," Merrill says with a shudder. Between them, Paku whimpers a little. He gently shoulder-checks Merrill, then licks Marian's hand.

"Yeah," agrees Marian. "So. Looking forward to today?"

Merrill makes a face. "Not really. I'll just be doing those same tests again four times a day at the edge of the bubble. They wouldn't even let me bring Fluffy." She pauses, then hums thoughtfully with a crafty gleam in her eyes.

"It sounds like _you_ have a plan," says Marian, with a smile.

"Greaggy said no spirit magic or magic we haven't done before," she singsongs. "He said that _after_ I released Fluffy."

"I won't tell if you won't," laughs Marian.

* * *

They split the day up into half-day shifts: Greagoir takes in Marian and Dagna while Knight-Corporal Kerann goes in with Morrigan and Clem, leaving Merrill, Rocky, Korbin, and Flemeth at camp with Knight-Recruit Sadatt, Skinner, and Dalish for company. The group on the exterior quickly find themselves conversing in Elven and mandarian; after all, both the Chargers, Merrill, and Flemeth all speak the former, and Rocky, Dalish, and Flemeth speak the latter, making for a fun game of telephone and a frustrated templar.

Their game is interrupted when Greagoir returns with Dagna and Marian, but thankfully it's lunchtime by then, so they lay out a picnic and get to discussing their results. Gregoir is about ready to send a search party for the other group when Morrigan returns, alone, covered in blood, and hurls her burnt, useless staff toward them.

"I have defeated a rage demon. You are welcome."

"Not very well, clearly," Flemeth says, not even rising.

"Are you hurt?" Merrill blurts out at the same time, though regrettably, Flemeth's words are still very intelligible. The elf pops out of her seat and rushes over to Morrigan.

"Demon!" Greagoir bellows as all of the present Templar surge to their feet, weapons coming out. "Explain yourself, witch!"

"We were ambushed by a rage demon," she sniffs, ignoring all of them save the templar. "I defeated it, but your corporal is slain. I will take you to his body. The automaton ran off, I know not where."

"Fuck," curses Marian. "You're saying we have to go find Clem now too?"

"Another templar dead and yet again only an apostate as witness?" Knight-Recruit Sadatt spits on the ground. "Lies I would wager."

"Stow that talk, Recruit," Greagoir orders sharply. The term 'apostate' is considered rather politically awkward for non-UP citizens, given that the majority of the world outside Chantry control lacks Circles entirely. "Be more clear, Miss Korcari. What happened, _exactly_?"

"Umm, should we maybe find Clem first?" Merrill suggests, hovering near Morrigan. "And are you hurt?"

"We were ambushed," replies Morrigan. "I will lead you to the spot so you can recover the corpse."

"That wasn't what I asked. Kerann should be more than a match for mere rage demon," Greagoir snaps. "Now explain!"

"For starters, it was fifteen feet long," begins Morrigan. "Quadrapedal, unlike most. It was capable of breathing fire to perhaps twenty feet away. Hardly your typical rage demon."

"Quadrapedal? Peculiar." Seems like Morrigan finally has _some_ of Flemeth's attention. "Did it speak?"

Merrill scowls a bit, then huffs. Giving up on just asking, Merrill starts to inspect Morrigan for injuries, and she's not shy about touching to check.

"It did not— cease your prodding, I am healthy enough. The demon did not speak."

"You sure you don't want me to get the stick out?" Merrill asks in a mutter as she steps back.

"No? Pity. Did it do anything of interest then?"

"It attempted very thoroughly to light me on fire," replies the 'apostate.' "I stopped it. You may study the leavings if you like."

"Then it is well you have been taught to the extent you are. Shame you were only able to save yourself," Flemeth adds almost absently. "Shall we be off then?"

"No, we will not. You are all going back to the base. I will be going with Miss Korcari and Charger Rocky," Greagoir counters.

"No way," Marian cuts in. "Clem is on _our_ staff, Dagna or I should go with you to ensure his health and safety."

"Miss Amell, you are lucky that I don't call for an Annulment on this entire expedition!" he thunders. "This is the _second_ Templar that's been killed in secret while alone with a mage! Now you and the others will return to base camp _immediately_."

Paling, Merrill's hand drifts slowly towards her belt buckle, which just happens to have a recessed edge sharp enough to break skin.

"So help me, if Clemence Hancock doesn't make it back unharmed and in one piece, the university will sue your particular company for wrongful death," she hisses. _Anull my ass_! So saying, she turns, storming right past Dagna as she heads to pack up the base camp.

"Also, if you tried to do an Annulment of non-UP citizens, then backers or not, you'd all be up for mass murder," Dagna notes. "Even at home, as you'd have to kill at least one non-mage to do it." She tilts her head "Never had a chance to test any of my weapon ideas. Could be interesting." With a rather creepy smile, she follows after Marian, not batting an eye at how Merrill Fades into being on Marian's left.

"Thanks," grunts Marian, as she grabs her backpack and hands Dagna's to her.

"You're my assistant and probably irreplaceable. Even if I could, it would take _so much_ work," Dagna says with a shrug. "I mean, you do all your work without bugging me, you do most of my paperwork, help with my Science!! and make sure I don't die. Plus you don't snore, leer at me, steal or even bitch about me to the other grad students. Seriously, you're tops." Whistling, she wanders off to take one last quick peek at the sensor station she set up when they first arrived.

Marian blushes, glancing at Merrill. "That's more compliments in one breath than I've gotten in a decade from my mother," she notes. "I could get used to this."

"I plan to make sure you do," Merrill offers softly. "Because you have a very pretty smile and I like seeing it."

That only deepens the blush on Marian's cheeks, but Merrill does get her wish— Marian smiles, just a touch.

* * *

They head back, grumbling and unhappy, but generally willing to comply. They separate, each trying to find some busywork they can do to prepare for the morrow, and three separate proposals for an overnight trip are written in the next four hours, desperate to cram in more hours of study into limited time.

Greagoir returns, hauling Clemence to his office to interrogate the Tranquil. Ten minutes later, he comes back for Dagna, insisting she order him to talk before throwing her back out again. In twos and threes, they assemble in the mess haul for dinner, hoping to hear the results. Nobody leaves the mess, not even after they've finished eating; everyone is too busy speculating on what happened, on how the Templar will react.

It's not until dinner is over that Greagoir enters the mess, along with all four of the surviving Templar and even the Chantry sister. All of the Templar are fully geared, their rifles in hand but not pointed at anyone. Yet. "We have completed our questioning of the Tranquil," the sister announces, her face cold. "Morrigan Korcari— you will surrender your staff and follow Knight-Captain Greagoir to the brig for questioning. If you do not comply, you will be forced." She smiles serenely and it suddenly occurs to many of the expedition that they've never gotten her name. Or even really spoken to her.

Morrigan glances at her mother, her omnipresent scowl fading to a more timid, uncertain expression.

Flemeth doesn't look up from her book, but merely waves at her dismissively. "Return her intact," she says mildly.

"Damn, that's cold," The Iron Bull murmurs to Marian and Merrill.

"Wow, we have a contest for worst mother of the group," replies Marian, eyes never leaving Morrigan's face.

"As you like," says Morrigan, her face slipping back into the cold, aloof mask she usually wears as she rises. She walks forward, head high, and hands her staff to Greagoir, sniffing a little as she looks over the cleric. "Shall we?"

"In the Maker's name, all truth shall be found," is the serene reply. The Templar, sans Greagoir, surround Morrigan and escort her out with the Sister following. The Knight-Captain remains behind to glower at the assembled others.

Marian watches them go, a coldness in the pit of her stomach. _So that's it? They take her— are they going to make her Tranquil? Right here and now? And I'm just going to let them? I'm just going to sit and watch as they haul her away and then turn her into one of those... those **things**? They're going to murder her, and I just **let** them do it. But what else can I do? Stand up and fight, all alone? They'd take me too, there's more than enough of them. But... _In all her worst nightmares, when they come for her brother again, she fights; she's killed resisting, or she is taken instead. Never had she imagined she'd just sit there and watch as someone was hauled away by uniformed thugs. _Garrett..._

As the door closes, Greagoir clears his throat to speak. "You will be staying here until dismissed. All of you. Each of you will be taken to your quarters, one room at a time. You will be questioned and your rooms inspected for blood and other... items of concern. Additional changes to security will be announce—"

Rising to his feet, The Iron Bull crosses his arms. "How about fucking no?"

Eyes widening, Greagoir scowls. "Now see here, this is a Church mat—"

Marian shrinks down in her chair at Iron Bull's table, hoping not to be seen as endorsing him. _Dammit, Bull, what are you doing, they'll slaughter you!_

"The fuck is is— this isn't Church land and most of us aren't Church citizens. The Chargers were hired to provide security— that's it. We didn't sign a damn thing that makes us submit to Chantry law. So you can fuck yourself right off into the ocean if you think you're going to arrest, search or steal anything from a Charger." His gaze flicks downwards. "Or anyone we've been hired to protect. Something to keep in mind while you question Miss Korcari, yeah?"

Greagoir takes a step forward, then pauses as he notices Skinner idly buffing the tip of a shotgun. One pointed at him.

"Let them search," says Marian, her voice small. She swallows again, repeating louder, "Let them search. With their _own_ men. We have nothing to hide. Under Kirkwall law— the law we all agreed to abide by— they have the right to search our things for blood magic implements and question anyone under suspicion of blood magic. But they have to get paperwork signed by the Kirkwall PD before they can Tranquil any of us, or detain us. And there's no call to suspect any of the Chargers of blood magic given they're none of them mages."

" _You_ signed," Bull says gravely. " _We_ bargained for an exemption. But fair enough, ma'am. But Grim will be present, just to be sure... communication flows easy. Sound agreeable, Knight-Captain?"

Jaw working for a moment, Greagoir nods sharply. "This will be remembered, qunari." With that warning— threat really— he stalks out of the room.

"You speak out of turn, girl," Flemeth notes, still reading. "You have not the authority to have done that."

"I should, given I'm the one that hired them," she snaps. "Maybe _you_ don't treat your colleagues as people, but my mentor treats me with the respect I've earned."

"And much respect it is but right now your mentor is kind of worried that the Templar might be a teensy weensy upset about the amount of explosives and, uh, technically not illegal chemicals I might have brought," Dagna says in a somewhat high-pitched voice. "Umm. Crap."

Merrill reaches over to grip The Iron Bull's hand. "Thank you so much for letting me stow my stuff—"

"Say no more Daisy," he rumbles softly "Seriously, just in case, don't talk about it."

"Dagna," Marian hisses. "We _talked_ about this! We share a room!"

"It's in a secure box!" she protests. "Really really secure. And the explosives are inert, they need to be prepped to use."

"Ah yes, clearly the respect of your mentor is a valuable thing," Flemeth comments.

"At least she didn't _sell me out to the Templar_ ," snaps Marian.

"I don't recall being paid."

"Your payment is in letting them do your dirty work— it's clear you're glad to be rid of your rival," growls Marian. "How could you? If they Tranquil her— your own daughter!"

Flemeth laughs softly. "No daughter of mine would be Tranquiled by this lot. She wouldn't dare."

"Does _anyone_ here have a decent mother?" Merrill demands.

"Qunari aren't raised by our mothers."

"My mother died when I was born," Dagna supplies, glaring at Flemeth.

"This lot took my _twin brother_ ," snarls Marian. "They dare a whole fucking lot these days."

"And yet your brother is still human, is he not? She will be fine or she will not. I cannot be there to hold her hand forever." She shakes her head a little, her attention returning to her book.

Marian snarls, taking two steps forward before Blackwall scoops his big arms around her waist, hauling her off her feet. "Woah, missy. Settle down now."

"Fucking _kill her_ how _dare_ she—" snarls Marian.

Moving swiftly, Merrill gets between Marian and Flemeth. "Marian, Marian, look at me. At me. Ignore her. She's just a dried up husk of a person, a horror. Ignore her. Come sit with me."

Marian scowls, taking a deep breath, then another. As Blackwall gently sets her on her feet, she turns her back on Flemeth, arms crossed. "Bitch."

"Massive icy bitch," Merrill agrees. "Come snuggle with me?" She leans in. "And plan?"

"Fine," she growls. "This day just gets better and fucking better."

* * *

When Morrigan returns— beaten, swollen, but her forehead bare, her eyes still full of life — they are dismissed, as the Templar suggested. Two by two, they are walked back to their rooms after each room is searched; they are each separated for questioning, then returned to their beds, the Chargers doing their part to protect them from beatings or other abuse.

Then they try to sleep, those that can.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two Templar are dead. This was never planned to be a massacre, just a research expedition. And yet, Marian can't help but wonder: were the Templar planning something like this?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: religious violence, sexual violence

It's last minute, but they had already been planning a small memorial for Knight-Corporal Drass; it's a simple enough matter to add a photo of Knight-Corporal Kerann as well, to hold a service for the both of them. None of the mages attend, nor Dagna, Krem can't help but note as he walks in. _Chief's here, though, and all the Chargers. Makes sense. We've all seen comrades drop, even if we're not all ex-military._

Krem's seen far too much death not to mark every one in some small way.

Unlike the other three services Krem has dropped in on, the Templar have closed ranks for this one. All of them are grouped together on one side of the small conference room, with Greagoir between them and the door where the Chargers and non-mage civilians are entering. At the far back of the room, the Sister kneels next to the flag-draped black bag where the remains of Drass wait patiently for burial.

Voice low and speaking in simple Arabic, The Iron Bull murmurs to Krem, "if any of metal men leave, you follow. I am too large."

Krem nods, eyes searching the group to see if any look angry or hostile. _I wish things could be simple: a man is dead, we have gathered to mourn. But no. There's something wrong with the Templar, really wrong. At least we have Sister Roberts to keep a lid on things._

They all look angry, though Sadatt and Greagoir appear more mournful than angry. But Devins and Jerann look a dirty look away from hitting someone as they glare at the body and picture. After a few minutes, Greagoir makes his way over to Bull and Krem, though he at least glances briefly at the other Chargers before focusing on the two leaders. "Thank you all for coming," he says, voice professional and crisp. "I know our ways are not yours, so it— so thank you. For offering your respects."

"The fallen deserve our thoughts, regardless of their uniform," Bull rumbles softly, nodding his head.

"A soldier's a soldier," adds Krem, gently.

Greagoir glances at Krem curiously. "You served?"

He nods. "Tevinter marines. I was a pilot, troop transport duties."

"Krem's our best pilot, on the rare occasion we need one. Rocky isn't bad and I can manage to not kill us all, mostly. If it's nice out. And no-one is shooting at us. So." Bull grins a little, though he doesn't keep it in place for long.

"Tevinter?" Greagoir studies Krem again, then shrugs a little. "An interesting path from there to here, I imagine."

"I wanted to fight, to protect people. They wouldn't let me. So I ended up a merc." It's not the whole truth, of course, but it's the truth he's pared down, made small enough for most to accept.

"I see." A faint smile of his own forms for a moment. "That's the core of the Templar ideal. To protect people. We lose our way at times, but that's the ideal." Looking a bit awkward, he clears his throat. "Again, thank you for coming. I think we're about to get started."

Krem nods. "Of course." So saying, he bows his head, folding his hands together.

Greagoir speaks first, taking a few minutes to tell of each of the fallen. He's not a skilled orator, and much of his words deal with their careers and performance in their duties. But despite that, it's clear that he feels a guilt for failing them as their leader, that he hopes the Maker has embraced them and that he is proud they served as best as they were capable of serving. When he finishes, Sister Roberts moves to the front of the room.

"Knight-Corporal Kerann died as a true Templar, in combat with a demon to defend the world of Man. The Maker will welcome him into His arms and accept him into the Golden City," she begins, going on for more than double the length Greagoir did before she finishes. Most of her time is spent on praising the Maker, reciting some verses and honoring Kerann.

She mentions Drass not once.

_In the name of the Maker, the entirely merciful, the especially Merciful, all praise is to the Maker, the Lord of the Universe, the entirely merciful, the especially Merciful, the sovereign of the day of recompense. It is you we worship and you we ask for help. Guide us to the straight path, the path of those upon whom you bestowed favor, not of those who have evoked your anger or those who are astray._ Krem doesn't dare say the Qunari prayer aloud, but he folds his hands, right over left, across his chest, as he spies Bull doing the same to his left. _Maker, if Drass was a doer of good, then increase his good deeds, and if he was a wrongdoer, then overlook his bad deeds. Maker, forgive him._

As the service finishes, Greagoir returns to his men, talking quietly to Jerran. The younger man's anger has blown itself out for the most part, leaving him looking empty and fragile. Devins, however, still has blood in his eyes and is making his way over to Adan for reasons unlikely to be friendly. Unfortunately, Blackwall had taken this opportunity to pull Bull aside to discuss a watch rotation so the qunari doesn't seem to have spotted this.

Krem heads to the alchemist, his posture at ease but his steps long. "Hey," he says low, to Adan.

"Sgt. Krem," Adan replies tightly, looking a bit relieved. Alchemy is technically magic, but a field of magic that anyone can do, even dwarves. However, the best alchemists are usually mages and Adan is very skilled.

"Just because you convinced the Knight-Captain you're not a mage doesn't mean I'm not watching you," Devins spits at Adan, not caring or perhaps even noticing Krem's arrival.

"Devins," Krem says sharply. "Let it go." A hand moves to rest gently on his hip holster, not drawing, but resting there.

"And what're you going to do, sellsword?" Devins says, glaring at Krem. "You Chargers finally going to stop hiding where your loyalties _really_ lie?"

"I've been hired to protect the civilians on this mission," says Krem, calmly. "I don't know what your orders are, but those are mine."

"My orders are to stop mages like—"

"William Devins," the Sisters says, appearing next to the Templar with surprising stealth and grace to lay a hand on his arm. "Templar swear oaths to serve the Maker. If you have proof of blood magic or a cardinal sin, I will hear of it. Otherwise, Mister Adan is one of the Maker's children. We do not cast our brothers and sisters aside on doubt."

Krem takes his hand off his weapon, sighing a little with relief as he nods respectfully to the Sister. _That's defused, thank the Maker._

"Thank you, Sister," Adan mumbles, taking his chance to get the fuck out of the room.

Devins glares at his back, then flinches when the Sister tightens her grip. "Sorry, ma'am. I'm just— it's just losing two of us, I... Drass was a year ahead of me in basic, he used to-"

"Be quiet," Sister Roberts says firmly. "That one is forsworn. He turned his back on the Maker and embraced a demon. He is dead and worse than dead and is to be forgotten utterly. Perhaps you should return to your bunk and mediate on the Chant?"

"Is that how Catholics handle this?" asks Krem, hesitantly. _It seems... cold. Almost creepy_. "I was born in Tevinter."

"Proper ones," the Sister says, eyes narrowing. "You're Imperial?"

"I was. Not anymore," he adds, which is true enough, even if he doesn't want to tell her the rest of it.

"And your faith?"

_Damn._ "Undecided," he admits, finally. _I can't tell her I'm thinking of joining the Qun._

Her expression warms, though she has a chiding cast to her lips. "A dangerous way to be, as shown recently. Perhaps we could speak on this subject now?"

He hesitates, then nods. "If you like."

Glancing around, she wrinkles her nose. "Despite the climate, I often prefer to speak of faith while surrounded by the Maker's creations. If you don't mind the cold, that is?"

"Doesn't bother me." Krem offers the Sister his arm, escorting her out into the snowy evening. _Keep an open mind, be polite, but don't commit to anything._

* * *

They talk for nearly an hour before settling for bed. Most of the others have already retired, knowing that few of them will sleep.

Marian's dreams aren't full of her heart's desire. But Merrill features in them, over and over.

* * *

She stumbles her way to the mess hall, rubbing her bleary eyes, yawning. She settles with a plate of eggs, bacon, ketchup, and tries to recall what her plan was for the day. _Maybe I should stay here today. Keep my head down and my nose clean._

"Hey," a deep bass voice rumbles. Settling in across from Marian, the qunari gives her a worried look. "Rough night, I see. Your mentor's chem stash explode or something?"

"No," she says quietly. "Bad dreams. I'm fine."

"No trouble?" he prodes, offering a reassuring smile.

"No. Just— just nightmares." She takes a deep breath. "Dagna got shouted at, but they were clearly her things, not mine. So they didn't— they didn't try anything."

"Good. Would have been a real pain burying all them Templar," Bull says with a wink. Looking piteous, Dagna slouches into the room and heads for the food line.

Marian manages a small smile, but not much of one. "How about Dr Sabrae?"

"Doctor Sabrae? Bit formal for someone that was cuddled in your lap yesterday," he comments.

She shivers a little. "Is she alright? Did they... hurt her?"

The qunari frowns. "Why do you ask? I haven't seen her yet this morning, have you?"

"No," she says, her voice subdued, quiet.

Looking up, Bull waves over at Krem. "Why don't you eat fast and we'll look around for her?"

Setting her tray down, Dagna offers a wan smile to her pupil. "Sorry again about last night. I feel real bad that I forgot I had that nitro under my pillow."

Across the table, Bull mouths that last phrase with a look of horror.

"Thanks Bull. And it's fine, Dagna," says Marian, her voice still subdued.

Dagna tries to make small talk as they eat quickly, though she doesn't have much luck with cheering Marian up any. Bull has a quiet chat with Krem, who asks around but doesn't get any hits on someone that's seen Merrill this so-called morning. Or either of the Korcaris. Or, people start to realize, most of the Templar. Just Knight-Recruit Sadatt, who has been standing guard on the door with a radio in hand the whole time.

"Sister Sinister Smile isn't here either," Bull mutters, frowning.

Marian's heart squeezes. _Merrill said she'd..._ "I hope nothing... I hope nothing _happened_ last night," she whispers.

There's a puff of green smoke from the back of the room, out of sight of the door. A moment later, Merrill shambles over to the coffee station and stares at it like it's the meaning of life. And just as confusing to boot.

_Merrill!_ Marian gets to her feet, but forces herself to sit, to be patient. _Maker, it's good to see her._

Merrill slowly reaches out to take a mug, then stares at it. Sighs slowly. Stares at the pots. "Damn. She get any sleep at all?" Bull murmurs. "Looks like shit."

Marian doesn't wait for him to finish; she sprints across the room, coming up behind Merrill and taking the pot from her. "Merrill. Did you get any sleep?"

Merrill makes a whimpering noise as the coffee goes away, then slowly looks up at Marian with bloodshot eyes. "Can't sleep," she mumbles.

Marian fills her cup, thrusting it into her hands, and pours a second. "Nightmares?" she asks, sympathetic.

Merrill drains the cup without pause, then winces. "Oww!" Making a face, she mutters something, winces again, then gestures. "Hot." Looking very faintly better, she pushes the cup out for more coffee. "Didn't sleep any," she says tiredly. "At all."

"Why?" the human asks, pouring a refill.

"Watching," she mumbles, then drains about half of her fresh cup. "Promised you." Come to think about it, she's wearing the same dress she wore yesterday.

"...were you watching my room?" she asks, quietly.

Merrill nods a little, eyes drooping. "Roof."

Marian pushes her hand aside, moving in and planting a quick kiss on the other woman's lips. "Thank you," she whispers, eyes brimming with tears.

Merrill blinks repeatedly. "Oh. That was nice," she whispers in a pleased daze. "Did I fall asleep?"

"No," whispers Marian, blushing. "I just— sorry. I just, that's the sweetest thing anyone's ever done for me."

"Oh. Good. It'd be a nice dream but—" She blinks, then a goofy grin spreads across her face. "You kissed me. On the lips."

"D-don't get the wrong idea," she stammers. "I— I still don't have time to date, just— I just— you know. Lesbian."

Merrill squints at her for a moment, then nods slowly. "Coworkers-with-benefits?" she counter-offers.

"M-maybe," she says, still red. "Keep playing your cards like that and it's a strong contender."

Merrill slowly tilts her head to the side. "Wicked Grace?"

"No, just, m-metaphorically— dammit," she laughs, picking up her coffee. "Alright, let's have breakfast."

When Marian turns back to her table, she's greeted by _massive_ grins on both The Iron Bull and Dagna. "Breakfast sounds good," Merrill admits. "Food might perk me up a little."

"Meet you there," says Marian, heading back to her abandoned plate. _After I wipe that smile off both their faces._

"D'awwwwwwwwwwww." Next to the cooing Dagna, The Iron Bull doesn't say a word, just holds out his fist for a congratulatory fistbump.

Marian sits, still blushing, pointedly snubbing both of them. "Merrill didn't sleep, she spent all night guarding my door to make sure I didn't get taken by Templar, so I'll thank you not to give her a hard time this morning."

Eyebrows raising, Bull lowers his hand. "Did she now? Well, I see why you felt she earned herself a kiss." He glances over at the elf, currently piling fruit and gooey cinnamon rolls onto her tray. "I'll make sure there's a Charger with her all day if you can't be there with her. Just in case."

"Thanks," Marian replies. "I am considering suggesting we take the day off and have a nap. I'm beat, and she's worse. If you post a guard, I bet she'd sleep."

"Yeah, you two head back to our room and cuddle up. You both need it." _For different reasons but totally need it,_ Dagna muses, her well hidden romantic side actually winning out over Science!!! for once. "I'll clear it with whoever."

Bull nods as Merrill slumps down next to Marian, head lolling against her shoulder. "And I'll carry her there."

"Eat first," orders Marian. "You'd hate to wake up in an hour ravenous. But maybe skip the coffee if we're just going back to bed." So saying, she smiles, just a touch, looking at the sleepy elf.

They don't get the chance. A moment later, Blackwall strides into the room, and the conversations fall silent after once glimpse at his face.

"We have a situation," he says, clearing his throat. "Please remain here. There's been a death."

Marian lifts her head, cold fear writhing in her gut. _A death? Another of the templar? Or—_ She doesn't realize she's spoken aloud until she hears her voice echoing back to her. "Who's missing?"

"Morrigan and Flemeth," says Krem, frowning as he scans the crowd. "Wu. Dennet. All the Templar, and the Sister."

"Sadatt's just outside the door. Looks just shy of panicking," the qunari corrects him in a low voice. "Dennet was in earlier, but I haven't seen Wu or either witch since yesterday."

"Suspects are not known at this time," continues Blackwall. "The Templar are conducting an investigation. Please remain calm, and—"

The door flies open, and Morrigan, still looking rough from her treatment the night before, stumbles into the room, dropping to her knees. "She's _dead_ ," she whispers, her voice distant. "Do you even understand? I didn't think my mother _could_ die."

"Flemmie's dead?" _Can I have her budget? Shit, did— nope, that stayed in my head. Good brain. Good filtering! Yay me._ "Uhhh. That's, well, that's like the third dead person. That's one more than any other expedition I've been on. And one of those was in an actual war zone."

Marian stares at Morrigan in horror. _Did she... kill her mother? Did she—_ She shakes her head, swallowing hard. "This is... Something's wrong. Something is very wrong with this expedition."

Rising to his feet, Bull heads over to the entrance. Kneeling next to Morrigan, he lays a gentle hand on her shoulder. "Hey. Come on and take a seat. Get some to drink. Won't fix anything but it'll help, even if just a little."

Morrigan gives a bitter laugh as she picks herself up, her hair loose, tangled. "Do you even understand what we've lost? The world is a poorer place, far poorer, than it was a day ago. We have lost knowledge that may never be recovered. We have lost a— it's as if the moon vanished one night."

"Tidal waves and monsoons might come, but we have to pick up and keep going. That's what life is: picking up and going on," Bull says in his deep voice. "Come on."

"Whaz going on?" Merrill mumbles as she tries to force herself to pay attention.

Before Dagna or anyone else can try to explain, there's the sound of heavy boots in the hall outside. The missing Templar enter the mess with the Sister just ahead of them. Knight-Corporal Jerann and Knight-Recruit Devins continue moving when the others pause, heading towards a table in the back. "Marian Amell and Merrill Sabrea." Jerann says with hard eyes. "On your feet and come with us." Behind him, Devins has his heavy flechette gun out and aimed at the two mages.

Marian turns her gaze to them, but it takes a moment for the request— order— to register. She swallows, hard, getting to her feet, nodding. "Yes, sir," she says, keeping her head bowed.

"Nice and slow," the Templar adds, eyes hard. "Hand spread. And keep to English if you know what's good for you."

"What's this about?" Danga demands.

"Questioning. For now."

_For now._ Marian's gut twists. _For now. Merrill's half asleep, she's a blood mage, she's not guilty but she spent all night out on my roof— oh no. Merrill. I—_ She almost forgets to be afraid on her own behalf. She remembers, though; a gun to the small of her back is a great reminder. _I can only pray the Maker spares her, focus on my own questioning. Just keep it together, Marian. I'm not guilty. That's important. I haven't done anything wrong. They'll see that soon enough._

Merrill doesn't get up herself— after she tries to ask what's going on, her voice slurred from lack of sleep, she's yanked up from the table and almost dragged along. Marian can hear Bull protesting, sees him, eyes blazing, as the other Knight-Recruit shoves a flechette gun in his face. Then they're out in the hall and being forced towards the small brig in the station. Merrill gets almost tossed into the cramped jail there as Marian is lead to the office nearby. As the door closes, she can just make out the sound of Merrill crying out faintly.

"Miss Amell. Have a sit," the Chantry sister says in a kindly voice. The chair she gestures at is a heavy iron thing, with chains around the legs and arms and the sunburst symbol on the back.

"I'm fine, thank you, ma'am," says Marian, her gut telling her if she sits she'll never be allowed back up. Instead, she stands behind it, careful to keep a smile on her face, her eyes downcast out of respect. _Merrill..._

"I insist."

"Oh, don't go to any trouble on my account," she demurs.

"Miss Amell, do you often find yourself refusing the demands of the Church?"

"Demands? I beg your pardon— I was only trying not to abuse your hospitality. You do so much for us, after all. I would hate to put you to any trouble." So saying, she moves to have a seat, her hands folded meekly in her lap, eyes still downcast.

"Trouble... yes. So often does magic bring trouble. And your family in particular is... particularly skilled at such." The Sister smiles as she shakes her head a little. "I had been told you were the good child, the devout child. The obedient child. And yet..."

"How may I serve the Maker today?" she asks quietly.

"Why with the truth of course!" She reaches out to pat Marian's hand, her own as cold as ice. "The Maker loves all of His children, even the most sinful. But you have to accept His love, His mercy. His forgiveness. You want that, don't you? To be forgiven?"

"Of course," she replies softly. _Go to hell._

"Then confess," she says, voice so very kind and loving. Her eyes burn with zeal and her smile is all sharp edges. "Confess your sins and be forgiven by the Maker."

Marian is quiet a moment, gathering her thoughts. "I reach beyond my role," she says softly. "I do too much, take on too much responsibility. I speak back to my elders. I am disrespectful, rude, crass. I— I think too highly of my own abilities." _Please be enough. Please._

"Hubris is a terrible burden. A mage's place is in service to humanity." Her eyes drift to something behind Marian and she nods slightly. Without more warning than that, hands reach around Marian to affix the chains around her right arm.

She tenses, heart pounding. _No, no, please. (get a grip, hold still!)_ "I know," she whispers. "Magic is to serve man, and never be his master. It is so difficult to serve correctly— I pray every day for strength. It is why I cast so little magic, to ensure that if I do cast, I am not being arrogant."

The Sister watches with those burning eyes as the Templar binds first one hand, then the other. She begins to speak again once the Templar is tying her legs to the chair. "Of course you are arrogant. I've seen you, flitting about here and there, giving orders to normal, pious humans. Trying to have your fingers in everything. Taking on airs. Thinking yourself better than you are."

"I don't cast," she says again. "I don't dare. It would be sinful."

The Sister moves from her position against the wall, kneeling in front of Marian so their eyes are almost even. "But arrogance isn't your only sin, is it? You covet that which is not yours, don't you?"

"I— I don't covet— I want to finish my degree, but I know I'll have it in time," she whispers, swallowing, her mouth dry.

"Ah, yes, your degree. You speak of it often, don't you?" She clicks her tongue, her mouth turning to a pout. "Tell me, Miss Amell... what did she say to you? Did she threaten you? Threaten to reveal your misconduct? Or perhaps she tried to take credit for your work? Mmmh? Was that it?"

Marian frowns. "Who? Dagna? She's never threatened me. She's been nothing but supportive."

"Now now, Miss Amell. If you start playing games with me..." The hand atop Marian's suddenly digs in, the Sister's nails breaking skin. "Well."

"I'm sorry, I don't know what you— Flemeth. Dr Korcari. You mean the elder Dr Korcari. No, she never threatened me. We barely ever spoke."

"Oh? Just the very, very public fight with her then? Tell me, Miss Amell: what is your relationship with your own mother?"

"I— she doesn't care for me," admits Marian. "I get a little heated at times, because of it. But I would never hurt anyone. I need this expedition to succeed if I'm going to get my degree. After what happened in Greece..."

"Ah yes... Greece," the Sister murmurs, nails still embedded in her hand. "Was it jealousy? Or simple malice? Even you admit that Janar has been so very supportive. Betrayal is an ugly thing, Miss Amell."

"I didn't hurt her," she whispers, tears pricking at her eyes. "I swear." _Is this what it was like, for Garrett? Being cornered, trapped, accused of something he didn't do?_

"Of course you do," she says sweetly. "Mages always lie. It's their nature, nasty little things that you are. Why, you can hardly help it. Lying, prideful, covetous and lustful beasts." Her smiles returns, predatory and sharp. "Ahhh, of course. Lust... is that what happened with Kocari? Lover's spat turned violent?"

"No," she whispers. "Please. I know it's wrong. I know I— but I don't act on it. I don't do anything with other girls." _Begging like a child, weeping, pitiful, is that what I am? Under all that hubris?_

"No?" She leans in a little. "Haven't I felt your hot, lecherous eyes on my own form? Haven't I seen you smiling coyly at that miserable elf? Oh yes, we know about your foulness. Not even human. Might as well lay down with one of the halla."

"Please," she whispers, her heart squeezing. "I know I am foul, unclean. I know I am. But I didn't hurt anyone. I am the lowest of the low, but I didn't hurt anyone." _Might as well with a Halla— is that how she sees Merrill? How they all see Merrill? Will they kill her, like a dog that's bit someone?_

The Sister leans in even further, so their faces are but inches apart. "Oh, unclean thing: you hurt the Maker just by living. Every breath you waste in your corrupt lungs befouls a little more of the Maker's creation. Every crumb of food, every drop of water is a theft from the faithful. And you devote yourself not to paying back that debt but to your own glory."

"Please," she whispers, tears streaming down her face. "I didn't do it. Please." Fear, anguish, chokes off any further words. _There's nothing left to confess. There's nothing left. She'll kill me, and I'll deserve it, just like Mother always thought._

"It doesn't matter," the sister whispers in her ear. "You were born cursed and left free to rot for far, far too long. All that's left is to be... trimmed back." She pulls back, allowing Marian to see the brand in her other hand. "You'll thank me, afterwards." As if to punctuate her words, there's a faint cry from outside the office, then another.

_No. No!_ She struggles, now, fighting with her fists, hoping to give the impression she's got no other weapon. _The metal's going to take the edge off, so go big or go home (can't kill her, they won't let me live) center the burst on your chest and channel it through that damn brand into her (first brand is on the naval, hold it until the second, on the chest, right over your heart, it's the only way to be sure you both die)._ The lightning builds inside her, the pins and needles tingling under her skin, gathering as fast as she knows how, not one lick of it escaping the seal of her flesh. She can feel the presence of demons as she gathers her mana, can nearly hear them whispering to her, a distant murmur of words she can't quite make out. The longer she holds the spell, the Fade connection, the more clearly she'll start to make them out, start to understand them. Start to be tempted. _Maker, please, just a little longer..._

"Prepare her." With that curt order, the unknown Templar reaches around Marian and grabs her shirt. He takes no care to avoid groping her as he grips the clothes and tears downwards. It takes several yanks, the fabric cutting into her skin harshly, but far too soon she's exposed to the Sister. And the brand. A thin scream echoes down the hall, then cuts off abruptly. "Beasts don't deserve this mercy," the sister murmurs as she holds the brand over a pale gold and blue flame with no heat source save her faith.

A loud pounding comes from outside the office, then an even louder voice. "Hey, if you guys have a minute or twenty, the ship is on fire. Thought maybe that might be important?" There's a pause, then the sound of furious movement and shouts. "Hey, I'm just a big, dumb merc, what do I know about fires? You lot are in charge—" Bull goes silent and the movement outside the office dies out.

Face twisting in fury, the Sister hisses at the Templar to go find out what's happening. Marian can't see, but she can hear the door open, then more talking. The Templar speaks too low to identify but he's clearly talking to Bull. "I suppose you think this bodes well for you, don't you? You think you've been _rescued_ , don't you?" She grabs Marian's chin, her sharp nails slicing into the flesh there.

"No ma'am," she whispers, eyes wide.

"The Maker will have His due, unclean slut," she hisses. "And I will be His hand that breaks you to rein. That teaches you _obedience_." She yanks her hand away, nails raking long furrows across Marian's throat and cheek.

"Maybe so Sister Bitch, but it won't be today," Bull growls from the doorway. "Back off or I'll send you to talk to your Maker in person."

_Bull, no! What are you—_ but Marian knows full well she can't save him. She can't save anyone. She can't even save herself.

"Heretic scum," the sister spits at him. "The Maker will—"

"Heathen or infidel," Bull corrects her. "Shouldn't you know that? Seriously, you're a terrible zealot if you get those mixed up." He moves into the room, shaking his head. "Marian, you with us over there?"

"Mm-hmm!" she whimpers, nodding vigorously. "Just fine, thank you!"

"She is _mine_ ," the Sister declares, eyes blazing with not just passion but a hint of Templar magic. She brandishes the still glowing iron rod towards Marian as fire begins to pool in the other.

"Neat." Without another word, The Iron Bull takes two long steps faster than Marian can register and decks the Sister in the face. She goes flying back over the desk and doesn't get back up. "Enjoyed that." Humming, he kneels next to Marian and starts tugging at the chains.

"Merrill, get Merrill," she whispers quickly. "They're going to kill her, please!"

"Stitches has her," Bull says gently. "The Templar are all gone. Did she— you hurt? Aside from your hand and face?"

She shakes her head, pulling her wrists free as soon as he gets the shackles undone. "Don't touch me," she whispers, "I need to settle my magic. Maker. Grab the brand, we'll hide it so she can't— so she can't—" Tears stream down her cheeks, but she refuses to acknowledge them, refuses to give in to the relief.

"I'm a tough guy, I can take a pop or two," he says with a forced chuckle as he works the leg bracelets. "You want to get the brand and slag it? Vent a little?"

"No," she says, quietly. "No. I— I can release it into the ground, once I'm on my feet." She takes a deep breath, staring at her shaking hands.

"Almost done here... and... there we go," Bull says, moving out of her way as he stands up. "And here," he adds, reaching under the cloak covering his back to pull out her staff. "Good thing you're so tiny," he adds with a grin. "Figure you can lean on this if you need it."

She nods, taking the staff and rising to her feet. She closes her eyes a moment, and with a sharp crack, a sudden rush of air pressure, all the static she's built up in her body snakes down the staff, into the ground, dispersing with a flash of light. All at once, the voices vanish, and with them, their terrible promises. She sags on the staff as she lets go her control, a small sob of relief slipping out her mouth.

"Nice sting there," the qunari says with admiration, studying the hairs on his legs as they puff out in the ionized air. "Go on ahead, I want to, ah, poke around here real fast."

She nods, turning without further word and heading out the door. _Merrill. Please be alright._

As Marian limps down to the cell, she can hear Stitches talking softly. A little closer, she can hear harsh breathing. Whimpers really. At the door, she sees the pair. Stitches is by the door, cradling his left arm, as he recites a steady stream of soothing words. Huddled in the far corner is a naked Merrill. She's got her arms wrapped around her legs, both of which are streaked with blood. The elf rocks slowly, wisps of greenish-grey smoke twirling around her.

"Merrill!" She doesn't decide to speak; the name tears itself from her throat, an anguished cry. _They hurt her. Raped her? Merrill, oh no, what did they do..._

Stitches jumps a little. "Marian! Don't get too close, she— well," He shifts to show his arm, which has a broad bruise over most of the forearm. "I think she teleported fucking air at me or something. Felt like Bull hit me with a pillow." Across the room, Merrill's rocking has slowed, though her breathing remains too rapid for peace of mind.

"It's fine, I can take it," she says, and she heads forward, dropping to her knees a few feet back from Merrill. "Merrill. Dr Sabrae, are you alright? Can you hear me?"

As Marian moves further into the room, she notices Merrill's dress laying empty on the ground underneath a pair of manacles, encircled with coils of silk rope. She also notices fresh splatters of blood on the wall there, with a clean gap the right shape for an elf. Merrill sucks in a deep breath, going utterly still at Marian's voice. After a moment, she shifts just enough to peek at her. "M-Marian?"

"Dr Sabrae," she whispers, relieved. _Remind her she's a person, an important person, someone worth saving_. "I was so worried— they said they'd kill you, I was so scared..."

Merrill peers at her silently for a moment. "Y-you're y-y-you? They ssssaid—"

"They tried," she whispers, and her throat closes, a crackle humming in the air as if the prelude to a storm. "Bull stopped her."

"...Bull's nice," Merrill whispers brokenly. _Failed you. Said I'd protect you_. "Sssorry."

"Don't," she whispers. "I'm alright. I told you. I won't let them— I won't let them do that to me. S-so, since I'm a-alive, I'm alright. Yeah?"

"R-Really glad-d," she stammers, trying to smile but only revealing bloody teeth. "C-Cold." Marian opens her arm, beckoning for Merrill to come to her. Merrill studies her for a moment, then tries to unclasp her legs. She gasps loudly in pain, burying her face again as she whimpers. Underneath her, fresh blood stains the ground.

"Damn. Her wounds are starting to scab but they're sticking," Stitches mutters from the doorway.

"I can heal a little— may I cast on you?" she asks, quietly. It's the first time Stitches or even Merrill have heard Marian offer to cast something; Dagna orders her to cast diagnostic spells, and she does so without complaint, but for herself, she hasn't. She's asked Merrill to cast. She's taken measurements and operated rune-based devices. But aside from that lightning bolt redirection during combat? Nothing else.

Merrill nods without hesitation, but Stitches adds softly, "just a little. No sleep, barely any food, blood loss... she can't afford much. Just try and seal over the cuts so she can move."

"I understand," says Marian. She lays two fingers on Merrill's arm, barely touching her, more warmth than pressure, and closes her eyes. A moment later, Merrill feels a warm tingle rush through her; it passes like a wave through her body instead of lingering, and coalesces on the backs of her legs, her arms, where the cuts from the riding crop still ooze. A cool sensation takes the edge off the sting; a double-heartbeat later, it eases off, the cuts sealed but no more.

Merrill lifts her head a little, blinking, as the wonder of the healing pushes back her shock briefly. "That was..." She very gingerly moves one leg, wincing at the deep ache. "Wow."

"Did it hurt, I'm sorry," Marian stammers. "I tried to be gentle."

The elf shakes her head a little. "Warm. Tingled," she says softly, eyes closing slowly. She fights them open. "Thank you." She rests her cheek against her knee and just stares at Marian in a daze.

"You're going to have to help her," Stitches says softly. "Doubt she can stand herself." Marian isn't sure she can get back up either, but for Merrill, she does, helping the girl to her feet. She wraps an arm around the elf's waist, leaning on her staff, and the two of them make their way out of the brig, out to the snowy darkness outside.

"Where to?" asks Marian, turning her head as she hears Bull come out behind her.

"The stables," Bull rumbles, pulling off his coat to drape it over the pair of them. "I'm pulling in all the mages there, stationing the Chargers around it. Not sure where all this bullshit is heading but I don't trust any of the Templar at this point. You need a hand?"

"I got it. Thank you." She shivers as they make their way to the stables, nestling into one of the halla stalls so Merrill can lean against the warm, comforting flesh of the beast.

"Better?" asks Marian, sitting back against the stable wall, watching the elf closely.

Merrill shivers as she presses herself against the halla. "Better," she mumbles, rocking again. The halla bleats softly, nuzzling at ther hair. Over the top of the stall, the halla on both sides peer into to look at the elf.

"Here." Stitches hands Marian a blanket, a medkit on top. "Think she trusts you the most, if you're comfortable with helping." _And you seem to do best with something to do._

Marian tucks the blanket around Merrill, over Bull's coat. _I'm more worried about shock than the cuts themselves, not after I healed them_. "Get some rest, Merrill," she says quietly. "I'll keep watch. Okay? I'll protect you. Trust me."

"Okay," she mutters, eyes closing as she almost instantly drifts off. The halla studies Marian for a long moment, then exhales strongly and curls her neck around the elf.

"Bull'll be back in a minute with a new shirt for you," Stitches says gruffly, eyes cast aside, just as she realizes they have been the whole time.

"Thank you," Marian says, too tired to blush. _Merrill's taken care of. So. What do I— there's something I need to— I can't recall—_

She shakes her head, noticing absently how cold her skin is despite the warmth of the rune in the stall. _Garrett. I need to warn Garrett. They'll come for him next._ She fumbles in her pocket for her phone, dialing his number from memory— it takes her two tries, with the way her hands are shaking, and then Skinner's pressing a shirt into her hands and she pulls it over her head, not bothering to take off the ruined one. _Why is it so cold? Garrett. Have to call Garrett._

As Stitches tries to non-verbally order Marian to sit down next to Merrill, her phone rings. And rings. And then clicks twice before, "Marian. Been a bit."

It takes a bit for her to place the voice; it's not her twin, and that throws her off. Finally, her brain clicks into gear, and her voice comes out: high, a bit childish, a bit tight. "Unca Varric?" she asks, as she leans against the wall, sliding down to her place opposite Merrill. _Need to keep an eye on her._

A beat of silence. "Yeah, that's right Mar-Mar. You sound a bit rough. What's wrong?" His tone is soft, gentle and comforting, a voice she's heard before from him when she was a little kid, already hungry to learn and prove herself, plaguing her Uncle with a million questions. But it's more open, most honest, than she recalls.

"It's Garrett. You have to protect Garrett. He's in danger," she says, her voice still strained. _Why do I sound so— I need to calm down. Or something._ She tucks her phone between her shoulder and her ear so her shaking hands don't drop it.

A quick pause. "Garrett is fine. Right down the hall, reading a book with a friend," the dwarf says soothingly. "Nice and safe. What about you? You sound a bit... off." Moving slowly, Stitches drapes a thermal blanket over Marian, then withdraws before the halla takes a bite out of him.

"They didn't get me," she says, her voice sounding distant. _I can't feel my hands. Weird._ "They didn't get me. Bull stopped them."

_Bull? The fuck is— oh, right. Qunari merc, The Iron Bull. Huh._ "Good. Good on him. Sounds like you got a good friend there with you. Can you tell me what happened?"

"Dr Korcari is dead," she says quietly. "They said they wanted to ask me some questions, they took me to the office and— they said they were going to kill Merrill, like she was an animal, not even a person. They knew, Uncle, they knew I was filthy and disgusting, they said the Maker was disgusted by me, by my arrogance and filth, they—"

A sob chokes off her words, and she pulls her knees to her chest, huddling under the blanket.

"Hey, sshhhhh, shhhh. It's okay, you're safe now, right? It's okay. You're okay. The Maker loves everyone, right? You're not disgusting, not at all," Varric croons gently, _desperately_ glad he rerouted this call. _Garrett would not be able to handle this, especially not after today. First his flashback, then that awful dinner with his mother and uncle? No._ "Hey, who knows everything, remember? I know you're not filthy or disgusting."

"Not me," she whispers, shuddering. "You're wrong. I'm disgusting." She takes a deep breath, lets it out. "She was going to Tranquil me. She had the brand, right there. I wasn't going to let her. I don't think— I don't think I'm coming home, Unca. I don't think I'll—"

"Yes you will. You stay with this Bull fellow. And Merrill. Stay together, stay away from the Templar. I'll get someone up to you, okay? You'll be fine, just hold on." He swallows thickly, bitterly regretting not digging into this expedition enough to know every little detail. "Marian? Are you listening? Listen to me, okay? If they come for you again, you don't worry about the future. You fight back. Do whatever you need to live, to stay safe. Your dad and I will take care of whatever comes next, I swear."

She nods, not that he can see it. "I won't let her take me," she whispers. "I can take her with me. So she can't hurt anyone again. I'll keep Merrill safe. I can do that. I'm not— I'm not a good person, I'm not, but I can do that. I can do this one thing."

"Marian no. You live, you hear me? You live. We— I swear to you, whatever else, you live. We'll fix it, okay? Please trust me?"

"I'm sorry," she whispers. "I wanted to be better than this. But I can't let them take me. I won't."

"...there's no shame in that," Varric says softly. "If that's what you need to do, we'll love you forever. But please live Marian. Please try. Kill her first, before you let them take you. Before they push that far."

"She's a _Sister_. I can't kill her," she whispers. "They've got a full squad, a Knight-Captain. Three of us are dead so far."

"She's a murderer and a torturer," Varric says firmly. "She comes at you, you kill her. And the other Templar if you have to. Get help, be clever. Just keep yourself safe. Alright?"

"Okay," whispers Marian, taking a deep breath. "Okay. You just keep Garrett safe."

"My word on it," he says gravely. "Where are you now? Are you hurt?

"No, I'm fine, I'm— I'm cold, but there's a blanket, it just doesn't seem to be— my hands won't stop shaking— I'm in the stables, with Merrill and the halla. And Bull and Skinner and I think I see Krem. They're keeping us all safe from the Templar."

"Tell them I'll pay them ten times their fee if they get you home safe. And legal fees if they need it." _Stone cracks Marian, you sound..._ "Tell me about them. Who's this Merrill? New minion? I mean undergrad?"

"No," she whispers. "she's Doctor Sabrae, and she's amazing."

"Is she?" _Well now (let's get you distracted for a bit)_. "What's she like?"

"She's an elf," says Marian quietly, and there's a timidity to her tone, as if she's expecting to be hit. "I kissed her this morning."

"Did she kiss you back?" he asks, voice still supportive but with a bit of almost parental teasing to it.

"Yeah," she whispers. "She spent all night guarding my door, didn't sleep a wink. Didn't want the Templar to come for me in the night."

"Sounds like a real keeper." A pause. "Ah, no pun intended. I'm glad you're... reaching out. Life can get really lonely."

"I can't be with her," she whispers. "I have to focus on the job. I have to— I have to come out of this with something to publish. I can't fail again. Not after Greece."

"Hey, if I can run my company, look after your father and date someone, you can invent a wonder and kiss a pretty elf."

"I'm not how everyone thinks," she whispers. "Merrill's the real deal. No formal schooling but she got her doctorate. She's brilliant. I'm just rich."

"Bullshit— you were picking up calc when you were _ten_ , Mar-Mar. That's smart. Real smart. You have advantages, sure, but you used them, you didn't coast on them," Varric says firmly. "You push yourself too hard, but it sounds like you're learning some balance."

Marian nods, momentarily distracted by checking Merrill, making sure she's still breathing under that blanket. "...did you say you're dating someone?" she asks, hesitantly. Merrill mumbles something in slurred elven and shifts a little when Marian touches the blanket. Her head lolls against the halla's flank and her blood smeared arm slips out from under the blanket.

"Yeah I did," Varric confirms with a faint chuckle. "Last couple of months, but... it's pretty serious."

"Good," she says quietly, looking at the blood on Merrill's arm. "You hang onto that. If you found something real, you hang onto that tight. You never know when— when—"

"No, you don't," Varric agrees. "So you shouldn't pass up on this thing you might have with Merrill. Regret is a painful thing, Marian. If there's a chance for love... don't throw yourself headlong into it, but don't turn your back on it either. You're smart and dedicated. Keep your eyes open, don't make assumptions and be honest with yourself."

"Yeah," she admits. "And it'd be nice to not die a virgin," she adds, settling back against the wall. "It'd be nice to be loved."

"You are, silly girl. I know that your dad isn't good at, well, being a dad, but he does love you. The twins miss you. So does Garrett." He clears his throat. "He's going to finish his degree next semester. I've gotten the work and tests for the classes he... skipped or otherwise— fuck it, the ones he cheated past and I'm making him actually do them while he recovers."

"Father doesn't love me, not any more than Mother does. And the twins don't know me." She takes a deep breath, lets it out. "I guess he told you I cheated for him? I just... I couldn't stand one more family member hating me. I just needed someone to pretend to like me for a bit, until I could get out, get away."

"The twins do know you. Maybe not much recent," _and who's fault is that?_ "But they know you're their sister and they love you. Beth still emails you, doesn't she?" Not waiting for a reply, he continues, "Garrett loves you, I promise. He regrets leaning on you. Regrets blaming you for being smarter than him even more. He misses you."

"I miss him too," she admits. "I keep having nightmares, where I'm there and I just do nothing, I just let them take him. I let them take Morrigan, and I didn't say a word. I let them take Merrill. I keep dreaming I let them take him, and he came back like Clem, an automaton instead of a man."

For the second time in this conversation, Varric has to force himself to not tell Marian there's a cure for her greatest fear. "You're safe now. So is Merrill, right?" _She would have said if Merrill had been—_ "So you have a second chance. You've been there now. You know the fear, know the moment that counts. Next time, you'll act. Make the choice now, to act. Make a plan. Practice it if you can. Talk to Merrill. Next time, you'll act."

"Make a plan in advance," she says back to him, nodding. "Next time I don't care what they say. They don't get to question anyone alone. Not for any reason. Next time we go with them. I'll talk to the Chargers. They'll stand watch. Nobody gets hurt, not again." She takes a deep breath, lets it out. "Next time I'll act."

"Damn right, Chief Assistant Mar-Mar," Varric says with a chuckle, memories of a much younger Marian demanding to help him with his work. Even better with computers than her brother, come to think of it. "Fuck the Templar, you look after yourself and your friends."

"Thanks, Unca," she says, with a soft sigh. "And if I don't— if I don't make it— tell Garrett—"

"That I'll get you back? Absolutely," Varric says in a hard tone. "Don't worry about Garrett, Marian. I'm looking after him. Just come home to us, alright? Please? Whatever happens, come home to us."

"I'm sorry," she whispers. "I— I think I'm going to have a nap now," she adds, eyeing Merrill. "I meant to stay up and stand watch but I— I'm just so tired—"

"It's fine," Bull rumbles from just outside the stall. "You cuddle up with Daisy so she gets some real rest. We'll keep watch for now, you can take the next shift. Fair, yeah?"

"Are you alone?" Varric asks at nearly the same time.

"No," says Marian, and it's not quite clear who she's answering until she continues: "Bull's here. You should talk to Bull. Tell him about the money. He'd like that." Then she's crawling toward the stall entrance, holding the phone out to the Qunari. "Here, it's my uncle."

"Hey Uncle Dude," Bull says with a smirk. "What's this about money?" He winks at Marian, then waves her over to the halla. "Sorry— _how_ much?" he blurts out as he closes the door to the stall.

Marian smiles a bit. _Sounds like Unca Varric has this well in hand_. She crawls back to Merrill, laying down with her head in the other girl's lap, laying along the Halla, her blanket over top of her. _Just a little nap. Then I'll be good to go. I'll keep her safe._

It's the last thought she has for many hours.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marian's just escaped the fright of her life: the imminent threat of being made Tranquil by the creepy Sister leading the Templar half of the investigation. Now she's hiding in a barn, guarded by the Chargers, with Merrill recovering at her side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CN: Trauma, discussion of rape

It's well past noon when Marian feels little drips of water hitting her face. She fights heroically to stay asleep but finally has to wake to figure out what is causing— "Good morning, assistant mine," Dagna singsongs. "Sleep is great and all, but as a certain helpful but pushy someone often nags me about, food is required for the living types." So saying, the dwarf flaps a hand over the tray piled high with roasted strips of meat, veggies and bread on skewers she's balancing on her knees. "Little hodge-podge but tasty."

Marian sits up, blinking, wondering why her chest feels so strange— _oh yes, scraps of shirt and bra under a new shirt, that's uncomfortable to sleep in_. She swallows, taking a deep breath, looking down at— "My phone?" she wonders, seeing it tucked under Merrill's foot. _Right. Bull had it. That was dumb._ She shakes her head, looking up at Dagna. "What's going on? Since I fell asleep?"

"Not too too much? The Templar put the fire out; wasn't nearly as bad as I made it look. And you said there'd never be a reason to have all that magnesium and flare paper. Or the rocket fuel." Dagna grins, evidently having enjoyed the chance to commit some arson perhaps a touch too much, and offers the tray again. "Other than that, we've mostly been just sitting in our corners and glaring across the courtyard." Despite her light words, there's worry in her eyes.

"You lit the fire," she says, relieved. "The fire was real? Okay. Okay, no, it's fine, I'm fine." She takes a deep breath, lets it out. "Right. We need to save this expedition. I am not starting my dissertation over."

"Sweetie, you need to get laid. Seriously, we can get some music playing to cover the noise, put a blanket over the top of the stall— probably move the halla out first I imagine, unless—"

Marian glances down at Merrill again, instinctively, though she blushes and looks back up as soon as she realizes she's done it. "No, bad thought. I'm _busy_."

"No, good thought. Kiss the pretty girl to wake her up, eat some food, then make out and relax," Dagna counters. "No science— we're not doing science today. Alright? Maybe not even tomorrow."

"But we're already well behind schedule and—"

"And we have three dead bodies and a band of fuck crazy Templar," Danga cuts in. "I'm not risking your life to get another peek at that damn bubble. Or her life for that matter. Or mine. Clearly. So no." She glares at Marian, hands going to her hips. "Seriously, you're making _me_ say no to science. Do you not understand how much this hurts?"

Marian smiles, her eyes misting. "Sorry," she says, wiping them with the back of her hand. "I'll try to be more obliging in the future."

Dagna shrugs a little, looking away to the floor. "I... I know I'm not really that great a mentor," she says awkwardly. "I'm scattered and disorganized and I'm not great with talking to people and, well, the only way me and my snookums have worked this long is because we're both alike. And we wander off from time to time, when we start annoying each other. But..."

"Hey," she says quietly. "You lit a boat on fire and saved my life. I'd say you're a pretty awesome mentor, really."

"Technically, it's a ship. Well. Okay, actually you're right in that we mostly just set one of the lifeboats on fire, we just made it look a lot worse than that." She shrugs. "It was kind of fun, when I could make myself not think about why I was doing it." She smiles weakly. "Next time, can there be a better reason to set something on fire? And maybe we could do it together?"

_She was really worried, wasn't she?_ Marian gives a shy smile. "Yeah. I'd like that." She pauses. "Well, probably I wouldn't, because if I was there I'd probably be yelling at you not to set things on fire, but— regardless. My uncle suggested I come up with plans in advance to keep people safe, so we don't have to set anything on fire last minute next time."

"How about next time, you shoot them with lightning and I'll set them on fire?"

"Mmmh, fire," mumbles the sleepy elf.

"Definitely a start," Marian says, moving to tuck some hair behind Merrill's ear. "How you doing, Merrill? Breakfast time."

"'frast."

"Actually, no, it's like a late lunch," Dagna corrects Marian automatically. "Few hour past noon, things got delayed while Krem and Grim were looking for Oran- ange juice?" She cringes at her own flawless recovery of a verbal misstep.

Marian stares at her. "Dagna... did everyone make it here? Lysas? Morrigan? Her grad students?" _Clem?_

Dagna winces a little. "You should eat," she says instead of answering. Which is answer enough itself. "You need fuel before you do anything else. There's tea too, if you want it. Coffee's out of reach, evil bastards."

She grabs a skewer, frowning. "Dagna. Who's missing?" she asks, before sliding a bit of meat off the skewer with her teeth, chewing rapidly.

The scientist sighs and leans against the side of the stall. "Well..." She hesitates, trying to figure out way around answering without lying outright. "Not missing, exactly." She glances back at Marian, then smiles very briefly at the sight of Merrill sniffing the air like a rabbit despite her eyes still being closed. "It's Oranges. Near as we can tell— Krem's a good tracker— he took one of the sleds, loaded with supplies and testing equipment, and headed for the bubble shortly after breakfast."

Marian stares at Dagna for a moment, chewing. Finally, as she swallows, she says, "can we send some of the Chargers after him without compromising our own security?"

"Maybe," Dagna says. "The Iron Bull and Krem have been arguing back and forth on it for the last two hours. They keep swapping positions too; I think it's more that they're trying to make sure they cover every angle rather than disagreeing exactly."

"Alright," says Marian, nodding. "I am in charge of logistics, I will—" _"Of course you are arrogant. I've seen you, flitting about here and there, giving orders to normal, pious humans."_ She shakes her head, going silent, staring down at the food. A moment later, she takes a deep breath and says quietly, "they will figure it out."

_Woah. I don't think I've ever seen her step back like that before._ "Umm, yeah. Right. You just look after Merrill. And yourself, obviously. We grabbed one of her dresses and the medkit is still right there. Do you want me to get Stitches to help or..?"

"I— perhaps that would be best," she admits. "I only have some minor first aid training." Her voice remains small, barely above a whisper.

"Hey, you alright?" Dagna says a bit uncomfortably. "You seem... Ugh, sorry. Of course you sound off, given what that— that bitch did."

She shakes her head. "No, it's— it's just that— she exposed some weaknesses I've been— I've not been— I know I often rise above my station," she admits, in a whisper that still brings forth the tears she hates. "I know I often take on too much. It's not a good look, really. So I'm trying not to..."

"Hey, no. I mean, sorta maybe, you can be a bit, uh, overbearing, but that's not always bad. If you were a meek and proper little assistant, I'd have ended up back in the hospital again on an IV drip." She coughs softly. "It, uh, used to happen about once a semester. Hasn't since I hired you though. So. Thanks?"

"Yeah," she replies in acceptance. "Still. I shouldn't— this is your expedition, and Dr Korcari's, not mine."

"Have I ever said you've overstepped? On this expedition or before?" Dagna asks quietly. "I'm your boss, right? So have _I_ ever called you to task on, what was it, 'rising above your station' or whatever?"

"No," she says quietly. "But... You're not Andrastaen. Let alone Catholic." Catholics might run the world, but they aren't the only sect that worship Andraste or the Maker. But the Dwarves typically worship neither.

"I'm a scientist," Dagna agrees proudly. "Not sure why that matters though?"

"It's... I am a mage. And you know we've talked about... You don't always understand the dangers, for mages. The Chant gives us a method for regulating ourselves, keeping out of danger. The Bible more so. And... It's a danger sign, reaching above my station." The Chant might be the word of the Maker, but it was far from the only holy text the Catholic church espoused; the pre-Andraste writings about the Maker, and the edicts and revelations by various Divine over the years, were bound together into the holy book, called the Bible.

"I thought the danger signs were mind control and demons," Dagna says bluntly. "Neither of which are you. You can get bossy and pushy, sure. Often even. But you're not doing it because you like to lord things over people. Not really. You just want it done right. And, sure, get the credit for it being right. But given that you _are_ doing it, you should get the credit."

"I want power," she says quietly. "I want power and fame. And it's not— that's a dangerous road, for a mage. There's shortcuts to power. And they always end badly. I need to learn not to want what I can't have. Not to want more than I deserve." Her gaze dips to Merrill, studying the elf's sleepy face, the slow fluttering of the elf's eyes finally opening catching her attention.

"Marian?" she asks sleepily. "Are we dream'n again?"

"No," she says quietly. "We're awake. Unfortunately."

"Okay," she mumbles. "Warm. Comfy. Th's nice." Her eyes droop closed for a moment, then open again with a shake of her head. "Hungry." Her brow furrows. "Arms'n legs hurt. What did I slee—" Her breath catches in her throat and she goes completely rigid.

"It's okay. You're safe," she whispers. "Dagna brought food."

Merrill whimpers, deep in her throat and she shudders. "Safe?" she manages to force out, a desperate plea.

"Safe," assures Marian. "Promise."

The elf shudders again, turning her head to bury it against Marian's side. "What— what happened?" she ask thickly, voice muffled.

"Bull saved us," she says softly. "You and me both. Dagna set a fire on the ship, and The Iron Bull came and bluffed his way into getting us free. We're in the stable now, safe, while the Chargers keep the Templar away."

"I couldn't— I was so tired, I tried— I tried to get away but—" She sobs softly, rocking against Marian. "We're safe? You're okay?"

Marian wraps her arms around Merrill, holding her close. "We're safe."

Merrill rocks for a minute or so, trying to fight past the first wave of memory. Finally, she takes a deep breath and lifts her head. "I hate them so much," she whispers. "I've never hurt them. Why— why did they—"

Marian lets Merrill go, pulls back, as understanding dawns. "Because of me."

Merrill shakes her head. "No, she— before she—" She needs a deep breath, to calm herself, to stall for just a few seconds. "She told them that— that they didn't need a confession. That I was already marked. To just... make sure I couldn't escape and to practice until she was done with you. I couldn't understand, I was so tired that the words were like clouds in my head, but I heard it and— and he said that— he was annoyed I wasn't human. Because he— because elves are unclean and he didn't want to catch something."

But Marian is shaking her head already. "Not— not to get to me, but— because you're a blood mage, and I _want_ you, and she wanted to keep me— because I want you. That's why."

Merrill blinks slowly, expression confused. "What?"

"You're a blood mage," she says, again. "And I want you. Because I'm a lesbian, which is against the Maker, and I'm ambitious, which is against the Maker. And she thinks I'm— I'm tainted. So she had to get rid of you, to stop you tempting me any further." It doesn't feel quite right as she's saying it— after all, why bother when she planned to Tranquil Marian? But there's something in the back of Marian's mind she refuses to look at, refuses to probe, and so she lets it go, sticking with her train of thought regardless of the weaknesses.

Merrill's throat suddenly feels tight, dry. "So— so you— am I evil? Is she right? Do _you_ think she's right?"

Marian bows her head, folding her hands in her lap. "I... I don't know," she whispers. "I don't. Okay? I believe in Andraste. I believe Andraste was the Maker's Bride, that she died and returned from the dead, that she was taken bodily to the Golden City to be with the Maker. I don't know how I can not believe..."

Merrill swallows thickly. "But... I'm not," she says plaintively. "I don't hurt people. _Why_ am I evil?"

"Maybe you're not," says Marian slowly. "But you're _dangerous_. Maybe you're— maybe you're a carrier. Like people who have a disease but don't get sick. They give it to someone like me, someone vulnerable to temptation, and I go mad with power and summon demons, but you live on to infect someone else."

Still at the door, Dagna clears her throat before awkwardly offering her viewpoint, if only to give the stricken Merrill a moment to absorb Marian's betrayal. "Umm. I get that— I mean, I'm a scientist, all deity stuff is just myth and conjecture to me, I don't even give my credence to stone worship beyond some consideration for some kind of mental— not important. I just mean, I've read the Chant, the older stuff, and there's not actually anything against lesbians in it? Or blood magic specifically for that matter. Doing stuff with magic, sure, but it never uses the phrase 'blood magic' anywhere. That's all in the Bible, which is a secondary source, right?"

Marian looks up, aghast. "The Bible is inspired by the Maker, every word. Not all of it's the Chant, but the rest came from the Divines, handed down to correct and expand the Chant over the centuries."

"Correct and expand," Dagna echoes. "So Andraste was wrong the first time? Or it was understood wrong at least? Which means it could be wrong now? Yeah, that's a good argument. And I can't help but have noticed that Divines never get 'inspired' to write anything that conflicts with their personal opinions. You'd think it would have happened at least once but no, it's always something that suits them."

"Civilization keeps changing, and we keep finding new perversions. The Maker keeps having to revise the Chant to keep up. That's our sinfulness and pride, not his failure."

"Shouldn't he have predicted these 'new perversions?' Also. No. No we don't. We've had lesbians for way longer than Catholics."

"What? No, it's fairly new, I think the sixties?"

"Oh sweet child," Dagna says with a sigh.

"Mythal was bisexual," Merrill says dully. "I can name at least three ancient elven kings that were gay and two queens. And humans too. Your Greeks and Romans did it a lot."

Marian gapes. "Well... But... But the Maker..."

"Cuckolded a married woman? Yeah, never really understood that bit," Dagna agrees with a nod.

"Look, if a literal deity comes down and demands my hand, I don't care if I'm a lesbian or married or whatever, I say yes," she says.

"Why?" Merrill asks, frowning. "Why does that make a difference?"

"Because He's the _Maker_ , because He has nearly infinite power, because He could hurt my loved ones if I make him unhappy, because—" She cuts off, hearing herself, and bursts into motion, scrambling away from Merrill, toward the stall door, a hand over her mouth and the other on her stomach. _Don't throw up don't throw up don't throw up don't throw up_ , her body screams from every muscle.

Dagna lets out a yelp and hops back with wide eyes as Marian decides to charge at her. Behind Marian, the halla lets out a shrill whistle of displeasure. And not just because of Marian, but also due to Merrill jerking away from the sudden movement, then letting out a cry of pain as she strainsher stiff and still injured limbs. "The fuck? The fucking fuck? Marian, the fuck?" the dwarf babbles, trying to figure out what just happened.

Marian doesn't answer, she's busy; she presses her head against the wall, positioning herself over a bit of straw, rocking back and forth a little as she struggles to hold her stomach's meager contents down. _No no no no no—_ Over the course of a few tense moments, she swallows several times, but manages to avoid throwing up.

During those few movements, Merrill quietly heals herself with the aid of a handy nail in the stable pen, then creeps over to Marian. "Hey. Are you... okay? Can I help?" she asks very gently, reaching out to almost but not quite rest a hand on the other woman's arm.

"I think— I think I— I think I'm okay," she manages, voice a hoarse croak. "I don't think I'll throw up. Maybe. Give me a minute."

"Are you— would healing help?"

"No," she croaks.

"Alright," Merrill says softly, rocking back to rest in a kneeling position.

Dagna coughs softly. "I brought you a dress, if you... kind of cold, you know?" The elf blinks, then nods absently as she reaches over to grab the dress hanging over the side of the stall.

Marian takes a few more deep breaths before pushing back to sit on her heels. "I'm okay," she announces again, to nobody in particular.

"Alright," Merrill repeats, not breaking her intent study of the human. Waiting.

"What the fuck was that about?" Dagna is no less intense but far less patient.

"I needed to throw up. But I didn't." she says, flatly.

_"No shit."_

"What do you want from me," the human snaps. "I don't— I don't want to think about it, I just want to get the fuck on with my fucking life and do fucking science and get my fucking degree."

"Would that really work?" Merrill asks quietly as she pulls the dress down past her waist. "Ignoring whatever hurt you like that, I mean. Does that actually work?"

"Story of my fucking life, right? Works so far."

"...it doesn't seem like it's working," Merrill says gently. "It seems like it just waited until you were on the ground to kick you in the balls."

"Good thing I'm a lesbian, then, right? No balls here," she laughs, but it doesn't sound like mirth that's driving the laughter.

"You could have balls," Merrill says with a shrug. "But I meant pretend balls."

"You're right, that was very transphobic of me," she says, nodding.

"Anyway," Dagna says loudly, not wanting to get sidetracked. Especially over that sort of thing. "Why did you almost vomit? What happened?"

Marian groans. _I obviously don't want to talk about it!_ She rubs at her temple, taking a deep breath. "It just... reminded me of some things that were... traumatic."

"Clearly! But—"

"Could we get some fresh tea? This pot got spilled," Merrill says as she puts the lid back on the pot she just poured out. Expression innocent, she holds the pot out to Dagna.

"I— sure. Fine. I'll be back in a few minutes," the dwarf grumbles, giving Marian one last worried look.

"Thanks," says Marian quietly, as Dagna leaves.

"I think you should talk about it too, I just don't— I can't stomach the idea of forcing anyone to do anything right now," she says with a shudder. _Well, maybe the Templar or that creepy bitch._

Marian flinches. "It's not— It's not that. Whatever you're thinking. I just don't want to— I don't want to think about the Maker that way."

Merrill's brow furrows. "As a Templar?" she asks tentatively.

"Forcing women," she growls.

"Like a Templar," Merrill repeats with a nod. Wincing, she slowly rising to her feet. "Didn't get all of it," she mumbles, probing at her leg.

"Do you need another heal?" asks Marian, quietly.

The elf bites her lip, then nods. "Yeah... I would normally let it just heal, but I might need to run," she says, tone matter-of-fact. "Do you have a knife? I could use one of the skewers or a nail again, but a sharp knife works much better."

"No need. I can handle it." She takes a deep breath, holding out her hand to Merrill.

Merrill shakes her head. "I don't want to tax my body," she explains. "Blood magic is cheaper. Sorta. It won't effect my ability to perform as much anyway."

"I can take more of the burden," she says. "If you try to heal yourself, it'll cost you double."

"Not with blood magic. If you cast a healing with blood magic, it doesn't take a toll on the target's body, just..." she hesitates, searching for the right word in English. "Thins? Fades? Pales? It affects the blood, removes vital-ness from it. It still does blood stuff, just not blood magic stuff. Not until I've rested anyway."

Marian looks away. "Fine. Just— don't make me watch. Please."

Merrill winces. _She was almost just Tranquiled for breaking Chantry law so you give a lecture on blood magic. Brillant. Good job. That'll convince her you're not some monster sent to tarnish her soul and drag her to the Black City for all eternity. Good job._ "Oh. Right. Sorry," she whispers. "Do... umm. Can you go ask if there's a place to wash up? I still have dried blood all over... me."

"...Yeah. Yeah, I'll do that. I— Sorry. I just, I can't, right now. I just can't— if I see you do it I'll start trying to analyze it and I just can't learn this right now." She takes a deep breath, lets it out. "Even if there's nothing wrong with it, even if you're right, it would make me a more dangerous target. Would make her right. So." She pushes herself to her feet, heading down the row of stalls toward the door.

"Thank you," Merrill calls after her. "For staying while I slept. For not hating me," she finishes much quieter. Closing the door, she sighs. "It must be nice, being a halla. So much simpler," she murmurs, patting the beast gently as she finds that nail again.

* * *

The Iron Bull, Krem, and Gregoir negotiate a truce: the Templar will back off, and the two groups will switch rooms around so they are in separate barracks rather than intermingled by rank. And so, late in the afternoon, the mages are let back into their rooms to get their things and move rooms.

The rooms have clearly been searched. The Templar didn't bother to clean up after themselves, leaving possessions strewn about the rooms. Marian brought very few personal items, so it doesn't take her long to pack; she leaves Dagna bitching about her missing goods with a stoically amused Stiches assisting and goes in search of Merrill, bringing her bodyguard The Iron Bull just in case.

She pauses at the door to Flemeth's quarters, at the open doorway. Inside, Morrigan sits on the floor, holding a black-covered volume, caressing the spine lovingly. Behind her, Grim rests against the wall, watching her in his usual taciturn silence.

"Morrigan," says Marian, her voice icy.

"Do you know what this is?" asks Morrigan, forgoing greetings.

"Just a dumb brute, but I think that's what's called a 'book,'" Bull offers from the hallway.

"This is Flemeth's Grimoire. Her real one; they took the decoy, of course." Morrigan looks up, eyes shining. "I never thought I'd hold this tome in my own two hands."

It's been a very long day. Marian knows better, she really does, but somehow she finds herself blurting out, "Is that why you killed her? For that book?"

Morrigan scowls. "Do you know she meant to murder me? She wanted my body for a ritual, to extend her unnatural life. I always thought I would kill her one day. You have no idea how vexing it is that I didn't."

"That... sucks?" Bull offers awkwardly. "Families sound pretty rough." _And you lot call_ us _savages._

Marian gives a bitter laugh. "You had motive, you had access— you expect me to believe you didn't do it? That you didn't cause all this?"

Now Morrigan's tone turns icy. "I have an alibi. If I were to kill someone, rest assured, I would begin with those Templar you brought along."

"Alibi," Bull asks slowly. _Be handy to have the killer but Marian ain't exactly the back-up I'd want for this fight. Not right now anyway, she's real off-balance_. "That's be interesting to hear."

"Yes, an alibi," snaps Morrigan. "If you must know, I spent the evening with Grim, in his bed."

The man grunts softly.

"Grim?" Bull says patiently.

He grunts again, though this time there's a small nod.

Marian makes a disgusted face. "I didn't need to know that," she mutters, even as she wonders — _I was picking up serious lesbian vibes from Morrigan. I guess I was wrong._

"So..." He coughs softly. "What was that about your mother riding around in your body? Isn't that, uh, you know, a demon thing?"

"It's nothing like that. Only a forbidden ritual. My mother is at least four hundred years old, the best I can tell. She's survived this long using forbidden blood magic techniques, and I was her next target. I swore to myself I'd kill her before I let her consume my life."

"Well that's fucking terrifying," Bull says bluntly, hand reaching for the shaft of his axe instictively. "You want a hand burning that then?"

Now she looks horrified. "Absolutely not! There is so much knowledge in this tome that was lost.. I must study it all."

"Why?"

"If not me, then who? If not now, then when?" she asks, with a bitter laugh. "Mother is gone. She's never coming back. I owe it to her to preserve what she knew."

"Did you say your mother was older than the UP?" says Marian, her voice a bit faint.

"No-one and never? The fuck would you ever want to now how to eat people's souls for? And if you're never going to use it, then why bother learning it? Just temptation."

"That is far from the only technique in this tome. I have seen her heal a shattered bone and leave the target healthier. If I could learn a fraction of her techniques, the world would be richer for it."

"No, but seriously— _what_? Your mother was _how_ old?"

"And of course, the longer you're around, the more you can learn and help, right?" Bull smiles thinly.

"Well, of course," says Morrigan, frowning down at the tome. "But I am no monster. I do not plan to consume anyone else's life. Rather, I would publish what I can, so that the world can benefit from what my mother knew."

"Yeah, most people don't _plan_ on doing fucked up shit, it just kind of... happens," Bull points out. "Mages or otherwise, people will do fucked up shit if they have the option long enough. Best to cut it out right off."

"Perhaps _your_ self-control is that low, but—"

"Let's just go," Marian cuts in. "Whatever she's planning, she's not going to get to do it in the next few weeks. Not if she wants your protection from the Templars. We'll report this to the authorities when everyone's safe."

_A few weeks. Right. Plenty of time for Skinner to get ahold of it_. "Fine. We'll talk about this later, when things have simmered down a bit," the qunari grunts, then glances at Marian. "You got your stuff?"

"Yeah," she says quietly, giving one last look to Morrigan before turning away. "I got my stuff."

"Cool. I'll walk you back— guessing you want to met back up with your pretty elf?" he says, teasing note firmly in place.

But Marian flinches at his jab. "Yeah," she says softly. "That would be nice."

_Not the reaction I was expecting_. "Hey, you alright there? Trouble in paradise?"

"It's just— it's just been a long week," she says quietly.

"...you want an ear to bend? Shoulder to cry on? Chest to punch?"

"I dunno, ever fuck a girl straight before?" she jokes.

"Straight no. Bi yes. Definitely opened people to the joys of horns," he says with a grin.

"I'm game if you are," she says, but she glances away, doesn't smile.

"Not sure I'd be up for a threesome with the Sister Sicko's spectre," Bull says bluntly.

She shudders, pressing a hand to her stomach, walks a little faster.

"Yeah, that's what I was worried about," he sighs.

"It's fine. I'm fine. This is fine," she says, quickly, still walking.

"Right, sure, Marian 'I'm a lesbian dammit' Amell asks for the cock when she's fine all the time."

"Well that's the damn problem, isn't it?" she snaps. "I think I know everything. I've never actually _tried_ cock. Maybe it's great."

"It is. So what? Just because fucking men can be great doesn't mean you have to do it."

"If I can fuck men, I should," she points out. "Why invite trouble if I don't have to?"

"Girl, if you live your life forcing yourself into whatever shape is needed not to cause trouble..." He shakes his head slowly. "That's ain't living."

The barb hits home; she glances away again, muttering, "I get by."

"Is that enough?" he asks gently, slowing to a stop at the entrance to the shed where the Chargers have stored their gear. He nods at the sight therein; Merrill, cleaned up with her hair still damp and loose, smiling faintly as Krem helps her wrap an ornate mirror back up in heavy padding. "Or do you want more than just 'getting by?'"

She stares at Merrill with naked longing, but her voice is distant as she speaks: "Wanting more than I can have is what got me into this mess."

"Bigots and a creepy fuck got you into this mess," Bull corrects her. "Seriously, Sister Petty Lice is messed up. She... well, Greagoir seemed almost grateful that I helped pull her teeth." _Not so much that I knocked out some of her teeth but whatever._ "I think she's legitimately insane."

"She's not wrong, about me," says Marian, looking down at the box in her hands. "She's crazy. Fucked up. Way outside her lane. But she's not entirely wrong."

"Really? About what?" he asks, leaning against the doorway.

Marian stops a few paces back, looking past Bull to the interior. "I am arrogant. I reach above my station." _I am filthy. Desperate._

"Didn't realize your kind _had_ stations and slots like us to reach above."

"Everyone does. We're just less talkative about it."

"Sure, but you're not forbidden from moving around. I mean, you might get some shit for it, but you're pretty, light-skinned, rich and well-educated. It's only a rare handful of freaks like the Sister that would bitch about you getting ahead in life."

She gives a bitter laugh. "I bluff better than I thought."

"Bluff about what? You not actually Marian Amell? Got some horns under that hair?"

"Look at me, Bull. Do you see any friends? Everyone on this expedition hates me. Even Merrill's gone off on me, more than once. I'm not getting ahead. I'm not getting anywhere. I'm burning bridges left and right. I've already fucked up my dissertation once and this expedition is a fucking clusterfuck, I'm going to have to start over again."

Bull raises an eyebrow. "Dagna, me, Merrill; that's three. Can't dispute much about this expedition being totally SNAFU, no, but it's not over yet either. Still got what, two weeks? And this just the start of things? Not your fault either anyway— you didn't get those Templar killed, you didn't kill Flemeth and you sure as shit weren't the one trying to..." He trails off. "Commit war-crimes."

"War crimes is a bit much, don't you think?"

"You got another name for a group of soldiers murdering, torturing and raping non-aggressive civilians?"

"They're not soldie— raping? Who was raped?" she snaps, as it sinks in.

Bull winces, looking away. "Attempted. Planned rather. And yeah they are. Templar are soldiers. They legit call themselves 'Soldiers of the Maker' in their own documentation. The UN agrees."

"Who did they go for, Bull," asks Marian, her voice low and dangerous.

He sighs. " _You_ , Marian," he says quietly. "Tranquil don't say no."

Marian looks away, her hand pressed tightly against her stomach. She says nothing, but the tension in her shoulders, the righteous anger, leaks out of her.

"Sorry," he says gently. "The Sister... she pushed to get you, just you, right up until Greagoir finally had her dragged out of the room. She's fixated on you. Badly."

"And you wonder why I don't want to be a lesbian anymore."

"I don't think she'd care," Bull says bluntly. "Tranquil don't say no."

"Not that. I—" She shudders, swallowing. "I don't want to be anything like her."

Bull snorts and raps his knuckles on the crest of his temple. "Girl, you have more in common with _me_ than her."

"It's against the Maker. What she did. What I do." She takes a deep breath. "Maybe she was sent to warn me. To act right or I won't—"

"Hey, look at it this way— the Maker was into women, right? Andraste? So you're just following his lead," Bull says, trying to derail that sort of thinking.

She smiles, despite herself. "Maybe you're right. It's just been a long week. And I don't know how to..."

"Take the rest of the day off," Bull suggests. "Just rest and relax. Last I heard, Pyro and Daisy were figuring to head out after an early breakfast tomorrow. They're kind of in charge of the science now so... that's the plan I figure."

"I'm sure Morrigan will pitch a fit when she realizes."

Bull shrugs, looking amused. "Nothing new about that."

"Do you think she's the killer?"

Bull purses his lips. "I think it's possible," he says slowly. "She had motive and means. She's got the personality for it. More, she's got the personality to deal with it after. But she's got a solid alibi and there's no real evidence. And there's others nearly as likely."

Marian shudders. "I can't picture her and Grim."

"I can," Bull says with a chuckle and a wink. Then frowns. "Kind of wishing I stopped with her though. Weird thinking of him that way."

"Do you think he'd cover for her? If she snuck out at some point?"

"Not for this, not without telling me," Bull says firmly. _Unless she magicked him. But Dalish says he's clean of mind magic. But but, doesn't mean she couldn't have charmed him to stay asleep or something._

"He probably slept. She could have snuck out."

"Light sleeper normally, but... possible," Bull allows. "Same could be said for you and Pyro though. Or Daisy. Hell, Clemence was unaccounted for all night. So was Sister Sadist." He shrugs.

"I didn't do it," she says quietly. "I wouldn't put the mission in jeopardy. And... I trust that Merrill didn't either."

Bull shrugs again. "Doesn't seem to fit your characters by a margin and then some but you both had motive. Means. You and Pyro alibi each other, and Daisy the two of you, but we've only her word that she was watching your place all night. Still. I could see you defending yourselves, you less than the other two, and ending up with a body. But acting as you have afterwards? No. Pyro would explain, you would crack with guilt and Daisy would have vanished."

_Pyro, Daisy..._ "What's mine? My nickname, I mean."

"Been rolling that around for a bit now," Bull admits with a grin. "But I settled on Bahith."

"That's pretty— what's it mean?"

He bobs his head to the side a few times. "It means someone that's always looking, always learning and asking questions. You want to know things, to know yourself. And maybe you're learning that there's other things to seek in life," he adds, glancing over his shoulder. "I guess 'Seeker' works best for a single word."

"I like that," she says softly, her gaze drifting back to Merrill. "I like that a lot."

"I like to think I've got a knack with them," Bull says, buffing his nails on his jacket.

"With what, words?"

"People."

"Maybe you do," says Marian, with a small smile. "I'm glad we hired you on, Bull. I can't imagine this trip without you."


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clem the Tranquil has gone missing, and nobody's sure where he is. With the Templar preying on the mages, it's not safe for the Chargers to go off and find him; better, instead, to take the mages with them, so they can all search together and stay safe from their so-called escort.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No content warnings this chapter! Yay!

There are seven Chargers, plus Blackwall: Bull, Krem, Dalish, Skinner, Stitches, Rocky, and Grim. That night, Rocky, Skinner, Dalish, and Grim stand guard, keeping an eye out for Templar, so that in the morning, Blackwall, Krem, Bull, and Stitches can hike into the bubble with the mages to look for Clem.

They don't anticipate Korbin Wu, Luka Yang, Eli Adan, or John Dennett being given any trouble by the templar; two dwarves and two humans, the support staff are none of them mages and all of them smart enough to stay out of trouble. The party agree not to leave any of the mages behind the next day, to travel as a group: Merrill, Marian, Dagna, Lysas, Morrinan, Abernath, and Veness. They take two of the halla and a sledge of supplies, as well as three of the Mabari, and still feel nervous, under-prepared, frightened. The hike is an exercise in nerves, but they make it to the bubble unscathed, set up tents just outside the perimeter.

That done, they set out to search for Clem. The last time the Tranquil had gone missing, Morrigan had found him near the center of the phenomenon, seemingly drawn to it; she had not seen the center with her own eyes, but she knew where it must be, as they all did. And so, they begin hiking through the strange, frozen jungle.

The bubble is surprising large: nearly triple the projected size that Dagna and Flemeth had estimated based on power requirements and stability during the ocean voyage. So they've been walking for nearly an hour before Bull has relaxed enough about the eerie stillness to start getting curious. "So... what the fuck is all this anyway? I mean, seriously, we're walking through the set of Jurassic Park that's still on pause. What the fuck? That's a fucking dinosaur over there!" he finishes loudly, stabbing an accusatory finger at some kind of cat-sized bipedal reptile with claws that's frozen in mid leap.

Dagna's eyes go wide and she gasps softly in delight. _Science talk_! "Well actually, I would instead say we're walking through a living, bre— well, not breathing rebuttal of Zemeckis' Proposed Theory of Chronal Entanglement, which in turn means it supports Asaro's counter theory of—"

"It's a time bubble," Marian cuts in. "Basically, there was some sort of Fade breach, and time was frozen in an area around the epicenter of the event. This is older than humans, so it must be a natural phenomenon— something that happened on its own, some protrusion from the Fade into the Real."

"Know you nothing?" asks Morrigan, scoffing a little. "The Veil did not exist during the time this event manifested. The oldest elven records speak of a time before the Fade was separated from the Real, when spirits and elves co-existed in peace. That would be well after all these creatures died out. This must have been preserved when the Veil was created, unaffected by the Veil — meaning we are in the only place on Earth that replicates the pre-Veil conditions."

"Hence, the creepy Fade ghost," mumbles Lysas, shuddering a bit.

"Which is bothering me, a lot if I'm honest," Merrill says from the same spot she's been all day: double arm's reach of Marian. Close enough to be able to get to her quickly if needed but not so close that Marian can easily tell her to go away for bothering her. "Both aspects— because there is a Veil here, but it's wrong. Maybe. It's not the same as the Veil and it's much, much, much thinner. Almost like... mist, rather than a veil. Or, well, the Veil is actually pretty robust. So it's more like this is a veil and the Veil is a wall that has doors but only rarely and can be climbed but only with a lot of effort. And also, this time-stop effect... It's spherical. Perfectly spherical, if our measurements on the one side are representative of the entire field. That's... abnormal for a natural event. Not impossible, sure, but... abnormal. Even explosions and splash patterns are irregular due to minute variations in the environment."

"So wait— the Veil is what keeps spirits and _demons_ out, right? So, uh," Bull looks around nervously, hand reaching for the haft of his massive greataxe.

"Yup! But like she said, there's a bit of Veil here evidently. Mostly around the edges of the bubble," Dagna says cheerfully as she takes a few pictures.

"The edges. Which were are moving away from," Bull says flatly.

"There are probably Demons here, yes. Hence why the Templar was Abominated—" here Marian pauses to make a face at that conjugation, but she continues speaking anyway: "because the Veil is thinner so the Demons are stronger, and potentially able to cross physically into this space. They won't be able to cross into the Real from here, because they'll be subject to the same restrictions as crossing the Veil, but they can meet us here, halfway between."

"Almost like a neutral zone," Merrill offers, though her eyes are alert as well.

"Or a cage fight ring," Rocky counters drolly.

"If we find any spirits or small demons, try not to kill them. I want to see if we can interview them first," Dagna says eagerly. "They're immortal, so they might have been here this whole time! Can you imagine that? They could give eye witness testimony to the age of dinosaurs!"

" _If_ they're coherent enough to remember things," Marian points out. "The bigger ones are more likely to be able to recall anything— but of course, their perspective is skewed."

"Meh, I've interviewed sages high on cactus flowers before, I'll figure it out," the excitable scientist replies, still taking pictures without bothering to watch where she's walking. "This is so awesome! None of the pictures are working at all!"

Bull stares a moment at her, then turns to Marian. "You're going to make a great mom one day," he says dryly. _If she can keep Pyro alive and functional..._

"Are you running Apple or Amell?" asks Marian, frowning, though she blushes slightly at Bull's comment.

"Amell," Dagna replies, still grinning. "The camera's working fine, the photos are fucked up," she explains, showing her the viewer. And 'fucked up' is about right, as the photos are washed out in green haze and very, very odd. The trees are fine, though discolored, as is the proto-bird in the center of the photo. The ground is faded, ghostlike, and the rocks are just outright missing. "The Apple camera stopped working forty minutes ago but was taking normal pictures," she adds.

Marian scrolls through images, jaw dropping. " _Definitely_ send those to me. I'll want to talk to our scientists, my father's scientists I mean, to figure out why it did that. That could be my thesis, I bet— designing one that will work in the Fade."

Dagna's grins widens even more. "Could be! And— ooooh." She pulls the camera back and then takes a picture of Marian before pulling it up. "Huh. You came out normal. Green haze but only a little. Do me!"

Marian takes the camera, snaps a photo of Dagna— and then one of Iron Bull. _A mage, a Shirén and someone who is neither._

"Hey!" Bull protests. "Give a guy warning so he can pose next time!" The most recent shot, of Bull, looks much like her own— the background is still messed up but Bull is both less green and somewhat faded. The shot of Dagna is just messed up. And lacking a subject entirely.

"Dagna... you don't exist," says Marian, her voice awed. "Don't you see? This is capturing our Fade-self!"

"...our souls?" asks Veness, with a frown. "Amell cameras can capture our souls?"

"Don't daft, souls are just mythological babble," Dagna says absently, mind churning. "Dreamselves, fadeselves... you're going to have to come up with a catchy name. Donors and backers love catchy names."

"Someone take a picture of all the mages— I'm curious as to whether it's a fine enough degree of measure to give an indication of power," Merrill suggests.

Marian hands the camera to Iron Bull, heading toward Merrill. "Fadeselves was used in the Dracos and Ulmidge paper."

"But it's your soul that goes to the Fade, right? When you sleep?" says Veness, still deep in thought. "And that's why Dwarves don't go?"

Dagna rolls her eyes. "If by 'souls go to the Fade' you mean 'mind becomes open and vulnerable to Fade influences,' then sure." Shaking her head, she looks over at Marian. "And yes, they coined a term for a proposed idea, but you're holding strong evidence of much more. I mean, if you can make a camera that can do _this_ in normal conditions..."

"You guys too," Merrill says, waving Lyass, the grad students and Morrigan over.

Morrigan ends up standing a little apart from the others; whether she chose to stop a few steps shy or the grad students crowded a little away from her isn't clear, but when the picture is taken, she's off to one side, looking away into the distance, alone.

Dagna rushes over to grab the camera from Bull the second it's taken. "Woah." She looks up, eyes going from Morrigan to Merrill to Marian, then back again. "I think... Marian, second opinion?" she hedges.

Marian comes to peek over Dagna's shoulder, frowning a bit. "Yeah, pretty sure that's raw power— Morrigan's is all over the place. Merrill's is pretty large too. The grad students, less so." And herself, in last place: a tiny halo of an aura, barely visible. Almost as if she barely qualifies as a mage. Her cheeks burn, but she declines to comment.

Dagna gives her a flat look. "And that fact that your aura is _perfectly_ even all around you?" she murmurs. "Morgan is like one of those air-streamer advertising things, Merrill's a Bunsen burner and even the minions are all rippley."

Marian shrugs. "I like things tidy?"

"Uh-huh," the dwarf says with a staggering amount of disbelief. "Still, it seems to work." With no more comment than that, she hands the camera to Marian. "Go ahead and look through them, I took a bunch of shots along the way. I wonder if I have the chemicals needed to make an old-fashioned camera," she mutters, wandering over to their supplies.

"Nope!" Moving far too quickly for his size, The Iron Bull lunges over and picks Dagna up by the back of her leather tunic.

"Hey!" Dagna flails around, but seems more perplexed than upset.

"Not a chance in disorder am I letting you near the chemicals while we're in transit, Doctor Pyro."

Dagna squirms half-heartedly, an adorable pout on her lips, then sighs. "Yeah, okay, that's legit," she concedes. "Bull back ride?"

Laughing, Marian skims through the photos on the phone, glancing over them to look for— "Gah! What the fuck?!" She nearly drops the phone, staring at the clear image of translucent Drass lurking behind an interesting-looking fern Dagna took a photo of.

"Gah what? What got a gah?" Dagna demands, squirming in earnest now. With a sigh Bull brings her over so she can see. "What're we looking at? Is that a special fern?"

Curious as well, Merrill comes over but can't get close enough to see.

"What? No, Drass! Look, right there, plain as day!" Says Marian

"Isn't that the dead Templar?" Bull asks, peering over Dagna. "Shouldn't he be, you know, dead?"

"Uh, that's a fern. And a few trees. There's a rock shape missing thereish," Dagna says gesturing at the dead man.

"...you can't see him? At all?" demands Marian. "You're not shitting me?"

"Noooo," Dagna says, frowning. "Where is he?"

"Okay wait, wait, hang on, I got this." She squats, putting the phone on a rock, then pulls out her own Amell phone and takes a picture of the other Amell phone. "Shit, wait. Anyone have an iPhone?"

"I have the other camera but it's not working this deep into the bubble," Dagna reminds her.

"I know a ward that can protect the tech, let it work for a very short time," Merrill offers. "It's not cheap to power so—"

"You can do _what_?" Dagna demands of her new lab tool, eyes wide and avaricious. "Marian, seduce her so she stays."

Marian's mouth moves faster than her mind: " _Les-bi_ — wait, seduce _Merrill_? Yeah, okay."

"Wait, how does _more_ magic make tech work?" Bull asks before Marian even finishes. "Isn't that the reverse of how it work?" _Not yet Pyro, Seeker isn't ready for that._

Merrill looks like she wants to protest the topic _not_ changing but lets it go. Begrudgingly. "Because the ward acts like a wall or filter. No, not a filter, umm, close to that but not. Pulls in water?"

"It temporarily dams the flow of magic in an area?" asks Morrigan. "You aren't speaking of the _Elgar Hamin_ , are you? That technique can't be done outside a resonant triad, not without more lyrium than we have."

"Not block, that's the trick. Making the ward like stone or metal takes too much power. Instead, you make so the ward... Takes it in, but slowly. Like a thingie, umm, in sinks?"

"A sponge? Like to clean dishes?"

"Yes, that!" Merrill beams at Veness gratefully. "The ward fills with the magic, which not only helps power it, a little, but is much easier to make. And when it gives, it starts with tinkles, not shattering and flooding."

"Which would give me a couple of seconds to power it down before it corrupts the SD card," Dagna notes with approval.

"Alright. Let's try it." Marian knows she should counsel caution, should urge Merrill to save her magic for later, but she can't bring herself to put a stop to the most normal conversation she's had in days.

Beaming at Marian, the elf nods. "Right, say when!" She backs up a little as starts flexing her hands and humming softly. Dagna scurries off to get the tech camera, retuning as swiftly as possible. "Alright. Other than photoing the camera screens any other experiment ideas?"

"I mean, I wish we could summon Drass, so we could take a picture of _him_ , but no."

"How about pictures of the mages and the jungle?" Dagna suggest. "Oh! And Bull and Rocky."

"It's worth a shot," she suggests, "but I have no reason to think they'd turn out as anything but ordinary pictures with the iPhone."

"Be neat to see," she explains. "And pictures with the Amell phone, see if it's the target or the camera that needs to be Bubbled. Could be both, I suppose..."

"Might be interesting to get some photos of an active spell. One with a visible effect, like a barrier," the other grad student offers, getting into the spirit of things.

"Actually, if we're casting spells," says Marian. "I'd like to see Morrigan shapeshift, and take her picture with the Amell phone. Doesn't have to be with the bubble, just..."

"It's not a parlor trick," mutters Morrigan.

"I can only hold the ward for about three minutes without a boost, if I'm going to be able to keep walking so that might be all we have time for," Merrill cuts in.

"Alright, let's get set up!" Dagna says with excitement. Everyone gets ready. Morrigan, Rocky, Bull and Abernath all line up to be photographed, with Morrigan grumpily agreeing to shift into a giant spider on cue and Abernath readying a basic barrier spell. Next to them, Marian stands ready with a notepad to take down reactions. Dagna gets both cameras ready, then gives the nod to Merrill to start.

Merrill nods back, then takes a slow breath. _Okay. Time to get to work. And remember, no blood magic. Even if it would really help with this. Stupid oversized cult._ She resumes humming again, building the tempo in her mind, then begins to chant ten seconds of silvery, rolling words that sound like windchimes and rain. With a final two-handed gesture that involves her nearly braiding her fingers together, the ward snaps into place, a purple and red glimmer surrounding Dagna's position briefly. Almost instantly, the elf staggers as if struck. "Gah! So much— much magic! Won't last," she forces out, already looking taxed but determined anyway. _How much magic is just flowing around here?!_

Dagna's eyes widen and she quickly starts taking pictures. "Cast and shift, cast and shift!" She doesn't seem to notice as she shifts and brushes aside a previously frozen frond without any of the effort moving things has been taking in the time-locked jungle.

Marian notices; she shrieks, leaping to her feet as a grasshopper the size of her hand suddenly leaps into the air before her, hopping away through the underbrush.

"Got that!"

_Of course she did_ , Marian thinks with a glower. "Right, casting!"

It's difficult to read the facial expressions of giant spiders, and yet the meaning of this one is clear: a most withering glare.

"Well... shit," Dagna says, nose wrinkled with disgust. "Drop the ward!"

Merrill doesn't ask questions or hesitate. She drops the ward, then drops to her knees, panting and gasping for breath.

Scowling at the Amell camera, the dwarf takes a picture of the ground, then of the assembled line-up. "Yep, it was the ward. Damn. Oh well— still a neat picture. Both of them."

"Delete it," mutters Marian. "Or so help me I'll 'forget' to make you sleep."

"Not a chance," Dagna sing-songs with a grin.

"Hey, you alright?" Bull asks Merrill, voice concerned, as he kneels next to the still pale elf.

She nods weakly, sucking in lungfuls of air. "A lot more— magic than— I was expecting."

"Ooff. Sorry about that— pictures were a bust too. It saw your ward, even though it's invisible to the naked eye. Though I suppose a camera that detects magic would be pretty neat," Dagna muses. "Oh, and it revealed Morrigan too. I can see her human form as kind of hovering inside the spider."

" _You_ can see it? Can you see Drass?" demands Marian.

Dagna blinks, then fiddles with the camera. "Nope, still just a fern with a blot missing. Here, you look at the one with Morrigan," she says, offering the camera after going back to the right photo.

Marian stares down at the camera, frowning. _It just looks like Morrigan — oh, no, wait, there's a faint outline of a spider around her_. "Weird," she says aloud, passing the photo to Bull. "What do you see?"

Bull looks up from where he's rubbing Merrill's back. "What do I— motherfuck!" He recoils from the camera. "What the qun forsaken kind of monster is—"

"What do you see, Bull? Everyone's seeing something different," Marian urges.

"Fuck, next time one a man, would you?" He shudders. "Freaky ass spider-woman hybrid thing. Her head is bulging out of its head and shit." He shudders again, clearly recalling the image. "Both of them were a faded, but not a lot. Looked more melty than superimposed in either direction. Why a spider?"

"A spider's form is very useful," the mage in question says, from directly behind him.

"Like being creepy," Bull says with one last shudder. "Alright, let's get you some water, yeah?" With a smile, he helps Merrill up and starts helping her to the wagon.

Morrigan remains where she is, watching him walk away, without the usual jab in response. Instead, she leans on her staff, looking thoughtful and tired. For a moment, Marian is almost tempted to feel sorry for the woman.

The feeling passes quickly.

* * *

The bubble is relatively small, only four kilometers across; however, thanks to being tucked into the far side of the mountain, and being full of immobile jungle plants they can't easily push through, it takes considerably longer to find a route to the center of it.

As such, it's nearly evening when they get close enough to see the wisps of green fire that seem to mark the center of the effect. Using the telescope, they can see it seems to be emerging from the rock toward the sky; the discovery of a cave system seems a likely destination, especially when they spy muddy sled tracks leading into the cave. They make their way into the cave, discovering the pair of Halla and the sled resting where the passage grows too narrow to admit them, and press onward, calling for Clem.

They needn't have bothered calling. When they emerge from the narrow, dark passage, they spy the center of the bubble: a massive cave, open to a sheer drop on the far side, with two massive beings locked in frozen combat in the center. One of them is a sloth demon, the largest any of them have ever seen: a massive black-furred shrew, larger than an African elephant, fangs locked on the hindquarters of its foe: a dragon. 

The beast is even larger than the sloth demon, twice as large from nose to tail; she is covered in tiny scales, in a vivid, striped pattern of ochre, russet pink and black, and her neck is like barding, building to a pair of impressive horns with which she is goring the demon. Blood surrounds them from the pair's injuries, and her wings are frozen in the midst of unfurling, a tableau worthy of a place in a museum were it only marble and not flesh.

In the center, between them, is the rift: a large, pulsing ball of green energy, one that seems to widen as they approach, as if sensing their arcane potential. Around the pair are a ring of intricate runes, etched into the cave floor. There is no sign of Clem.

"Subhan Muhamad, SalahlahuAlaihi, wa salaam, hdha tnin!" The Iron Bull pushes up to the front, picking up and moving Dagna and Marian out of the way to do it without so much as a muttered apology. "Look at that beauty! She's _massive. Gorgeous_. We have to free her!"

"Woa- hey!" Dagna glares at Bull's back, smacking his ass futilely to get him to move. "I can't see now! Move, ya lummox! Marian, magic him out of the way for science! And the honor of the Arcane Department!"

But Marian is already protesting. "Have you gone _mad_? She'll _eat_ us! Merrill, under no circumstances are you freeing that dragon!"

Morrigan doesn't bother vying for position; she shifts into a cat, slipping between Bull's legs and sitting at his feet to observe the tableau.

"Too big," Merrill murmurs, eyes wide. "I'd need to drain myself a half dozen times over to free a living thing that big. And it can't be done bit by bit. Not without killing her."

"Lyrium— we can order in lyrium. As much as you need," Bull says instantly.

"Umm. That much lyrium would poison me?"

" _No_ ," growls Marian, jabbing a finger between Bull's shoulder blades. "We are _not_ getting her sacrifices for blood magic to free a bloodthirsty beast to eat us."

"Sorry, _what_?" Abernath demands, recoiling despite being at the back of the group. "She's a _blood mage_? Is she the one that—"

"Who _cares_! We need to figure out how to get down there!" Dagna yells, almost vibrating with excitement. "Someone get rope so we can get down to the ledge and poke them!"

"What, no! Look, there's no Clem, there's no way he went down there, we're at a dead end, he's not here. We need to turn back, it'll take until morning to get back at this rate and we don't want to sleep here." Marian, ever the voice of reason, tries in vain to wrest control back from The Iron Bull.

"Right, rope," Bull says, not paying any heed at all to Marian's pleas for reason. "Look at the spikes on her tail, they're longer than Rocky! Muhamad, SalahlahuAlaihi, she'd be a fight for the ages." With a grunt, Grim tosses a coil of high-tension rope to his boss, who eagerly starts looking to find a place to anchor it.

Looking thoughtful— and a bit pained— Merrill puffs into green-grey smoke only to reappear below. Ignoring Bull's shout of protest at her getting down first, she slowly approaches the frozen combat.

"Merciful fucking Andraste," mutters Marian. "We're all going to die. I thoguht the Templar would kill me, but no, it's The Iron Fucking Bull and his fucking dragon worship. Give me that," she snaps, yanking the rope away from Bull and tying a more secure knot. "At least I won't get anyone killed by _rope_."

_This is amazing_ , Merrill thinks to herself as she looks around. Or at least, that's what she's trying to focus on, instead of the hurt of Abernath's reaction to Marian's careless words. _Dragons have been extinct for at least six centuries. And even then, the last known dragons were just drakes. This is a High Dragon for sure. But... the bubble. This means that dragons have existed for millions of years. I don't recognize the breed, not that I'm a draconologist or anything. Impressive to say the least._ Her thoughts cut off abruptly when she gets within sixty meters or so of the rift, which flares up even more dramatically. Stumbling back, she relaxes when the rift grows more subdued. "Okay, so that's a thing," she mutters in elven. "Keeping my distance, got it."

As soon as the rope is secure, Bull starts repelling down the fifty foot cliff to the ledge. He starts to rush over to the dragon, but finally manages to control himself and instead stays to anchor the rope. "Next!"

"Miss Amell," asks Lysas quietly, hanging back near Abernath. "Is it true?" At Marian's blank look, he inclines his head toward Merrill, down in the pit below.

Marian scowls, turning to address the three students. "Dr Sabrae was engaged on this expedition for her expertise with many unusual, lost, or forbidden forms of magic, just as Dr Korcari was. She is fully licensed to practice blood magic in the UK. So yes, she is capable of blood magic, but no, she is not a Blood Mage. There's nothing to be afraid of."

"Tch. Fucking humans," Skinner says with a sneer. "Anyone with brain enough not to shit themself on the reg can see plain as day that girl hasn't got it in her to murder anyway. Templar is my bet, just looking to blame someone for Drass 'n Keran getting themselves offed by demons." Shaking her head, she stalks back down the tunnel to stand watch.

_Or someone who hates humans, given all three victims were human_. "Right, why don't you three start making camp. We're not going to abandon the halla, and I guess we're spending the night."

"Wait, what? But won't we get eaten by demons!" Abernath protests, not budging an inch.

"Marian, science!" Waving, the dwarf vanishes over the edge of the cliff as she goes down the rope.

"If a demon comes for you, yell loudly," suggests Marian. "Gotta run." She turns, jogging back to the rope to follow her mentor.

Merrill tenses a little, fingers flicking in readiness but doesn't cast at the swarm of insects descending towards her. Which is good, as it turns into Morrigan when it touches the ground. "Handy trick," she offers.

"At times." Clearly done speaking, Morrigan moves closer to the rift, causing it to flare up at her approach. "I see. Fascinating."

"Probably not a good idea to get too close," Merrill comments. "I doubt it's all that stable and it either collapsing or ripping more would probably be rather bad. Energy release alone would probably collapse the roof."

"Whatcha learn whatcha learn whatcha—"

"Breathe, Pyro," Merrill says firmly, gripping her shoulder. "Science is great but also patient. Slow and steady wins the Nibble Prize."

Morrigan takes a step back, watching the signature. "No, do you see? The phenomenon is not as unstable as it appears. The light is not intensifying— more of it's coming through the Veil. That's a rent in the Veil we're looking at, not a static effect."

Merrill, still holding Dagna in place until Marian arrives, turns her focus back to the phenomenon. "Hmmm. Possibly," she allows after a moment. "But if that's holding back the Fade, then I'd be worried about it getting too wide. If it leeches enough magic from us, then it might be big enough that the pressure of the Fade against it will make it continue to rip. I assume the bubble's borders would stop it but I wouldn't like to test it. Being responsible for tearing down the Veil sounds like a really shitty way to become famous."

"Dwarf! Dwarf here! Let me go poke it!" Dagna whines.

"Let's really not be famous for how we died, thanks," calls Marian as she gets to the ground. "Morrigan, she has a point— let Dagna poke it."

Morrigan turns to narrow her eyes at Marian. "That's Dr Korcari to you. In my mother's— in my mother's absence, I am currently the lead historian on this project."

"Look, I get that you're a creepy loner, but let's not stand on ceremony: either we're in this together, or we're not," says Marian, narrowing her eyes. "Don't get us blown up just because you're too proud to listen to someone you outrank."

Begrudgingly, Morrigan steps away from the rift once more, lips pursed.

"Thank you Doctor," Merrill says with a polite smile, pleased that her warning was heeded, even if it had to echoed by someone else. She's used to that.

Released, Dagna scampers forward a few steps, then slows. "Okay. Where did I... Ah!" Looking pleased with herself, Dagna pulls out a clump of halla fur from her pocket that's been woven, badly, together. Putting it on her hair, she looks at Marian. "Take video, hopefully the hair stands out enough to denote my location," she explains with a grin. "Shaved it off just an hour ago, so the cells should still be living."

"Uh. Well. Alright then," says Marian, pulling out her Amell Phone and beginning to record. "Ready when you are."

_When did she— wait. Shaved. She **shaved** a halla? The halla **let** her?_ Merrill shakes her head, bemused at the idea.

Moving slowly, Dagna approaches the rift, circling around to avoid the two frozen creatures. She's able to get about twenty meters away before it reacts and the flaring isn't even a tenth as noticable. "Huh. Some reaction but way muted," she marvels to herself. "I wasn't expecting anything, given, you know, Fade and dwarf interaction. Neat!"

"Who cares about the sky wrinkle," Bull protests. "Is it safe to approach the dragon? I want to see all of it." _Most of the front of the beauty is hidden by their wings and tail. Almost like... like they're protecting... oh Muhammad, peace be upon him, please tell me I'm right. Please please please._

Marian steps forward, raising a hand as she stares at the rift. "I can— there are spirits on the other side," she murmurs. "Calling to us. Merrill, do you hear that?"

Morrigan, watching Bull's gaze, frowns thoughtfully, then turns, eyes scanning the cave behind the dragon.

"Hmmm?" Merrill glances at Marian, then at the rift. She steps forward, careful to not get close enough to flare it up further. After a long moment, she shakes her head slowly. "I don't... let me try..." Taking a slow breath, she casts a long spell that creates a series of seven glyphs to circle around her head for a few seconds. "Huh. I think I do. Sorta. I don't get calling, just a very faint song that I can't even really make out the melody of properly. Can you make out any more than that?"

"No, it's— it's not really a— it's not a song I hear, it's a song I feel, I think. The veil is so thin here, it's— hmm. I think... I think if I slept here, I could access the fade more directly. Or there's rituals, but I don't know them. Or... that rift almost feels like a doorway."

"That last seems very likely," Merrill agrees. "Though... more a hole, than a doorway. Doorways have doors, but I don't think this can be closed, just mended."

"Safe, yes, no?" Bull interjects loudly.

Returning, Dagna shrugs. "Don't go near the rift and move slowly. Marian, ready to film Big Bull?"

Marian shivers. _Don't call him that, it sounds like sexual harassment_. "Yeah, ready when you are Bull."

"So ready," Bull replies, grinning like a little kid. Almost giddy, the qunari beelines for the dragon. The rift doesn't react before he's able to reach out and touch her wing. The group can't make out the words, but they can all see him bow his head and murmur something that must be a prayer.

"Do the qunari worship dragons?" Merrill asks softly, confused.

"I... guess they must? I thought they worshiped the Maker, just, through a weird roundabout way that involves Him setting up this whole Qun thing?" Marian shrugs. "It is a pretty cool dragon, just... you know... dangerous."

"There's rumors that the qunari, the blood qunari, not converts, have some kind of bond with dragons," Dagna murmurs. "Worshiped them long ago, hunted them, tamed them, ate them, mated with them— no idea, heard all sorts of theories. But they're always the first to try and get in on dragon remains and they have a standing bounty— like six figures or more bounty— on any information leading to living dragons."

Finishing his prayer, Bull gives the wing a pat, then begins to move around so he can see what the dragon is encircling. "Damn," he whispers, sagging against her when he finally gets a look. " _Damn_ ," he repeats, hope draining out of him. _If there had been eggs, those would be small enough for Daisy to unfreeze. But this is just some art. Well, magic art, I guess. Damn._

"Dr Sabrae," calls Morrigan, with a small smile. "how large a creature would you say you could release safely? Would you say a two meter diameter was too large?"

Marian turns, bringing the camera with her. "She did larger than that before, remember? We brought the beast back with us— Dennett's been trying to keep him alive. Why?"

"Fluffy was more than that big, yes," Merrill agrees. "And I could have done bigger, especially if I take my time with it. Not today, if I have a choice, I'm already a bit tired."

Morrigan gestures to an alcove, a bit of straw poking out from the edge of it. "At a guess, I would suspect there's eggs hidden in that alcove— the dragon was battling to protect them from the demon."

Bull's head whips around like magic and he sprints over towards the alcove with an honest-to-the-Qun _squeal_ of joy.

"Oh." Merrill blinks a few times. "Baby dragons," she whispers, eyes widening. "We could have _baby dragons_."

"Maker preserve," mutters Marian. "Bull! Don't touch!" she shouts, then, racing after him with the camera still rolling.

Morrigan turns to Merrill. "Does she _quite_ realize that he can do nothing to affect the eggs?"

Merrill shrugs. "Probably instinct," she replies, gesturing at the dwarf scrambling after Bull with her own demented grin in place. "You're right, unless he's secretly been a mage or Templar this whole time, but I can't blame her for having the habit. How did you figure out where to look so quickly?"

"It was hardly difficult. I simply put myself in the mind of an animal such as herself. From the state of animals I have seen, it would appear this phenomenon was created in early spring or late winter. Most egg-laying animals are photoperiodic, and so, it is likely that she would have a clutch this time of year, as several of the birds I observed did. In an animal that size, this cave must feel open to the elements— she likely uses that entrance to come and go. She would place herself between the enemy and her eggs, to protect them, as she did battle. And so, I looked for smaller spots, more sheltered and warm, on this side of the battle."

_Photo-whatic?_ "That's rather clever," Merrill says, offering a smile. "Most people would have just searched the entire place instead of stopping to think."

"As you are no doubt aware, most people are not half so clever as they think themselves." Morrigan offers a tentative smile to accompany her acerbic tone.

Merrill laughs softly, nodding. "Perhaps the most common failing in all mortals," she agrees. "I suspect that no-one really has an accurate understanding of their own abilities. Most think too high, but many think too low. Shall we join them at the eggs?"

"I suppose we shall." She eyes Merrill, then suggests, "There's likely to be at least three eggs. Would you like one? I obviously would, and I suspect the Qunari would very much like whatever dragon artifacts we can sell them, but I notice you have a... fondness for animals yourself."

"Gods yes," Merrill replies, then shrugs. "I have no idea what I'd do with it though. I only know the general things everyone knows about dragons." Her head tilts to the side. "I doubt Cambridge would let me keep one behind my little flat on campus. Still..."

"Well, at first, you would need to keep them warm. Then you would need to source large enough insect proteins, likely dusted with vitamins, to keep them fed once they hatch. They will need territory, likely, to control, and they will probably have a nesting instinct..." Seeing Merrill's expression, Morrigan adds, "I can write you a handbook."

Merrill beams at her. "I'd love to talk it over as well, perhaps after we've stopped for the night? I suppose I should have realized you would have studied dragons, given their old status as the apex of magical beast and your focus on fading magical lore."

"Yes, of course. It is curious, however... this is not a breed I have studied. Perhaps the dozen or so known breeds represent the last of a previously broad genus?"

"A long distant ancestor I would suspect. I mean, this dragon was born more than eighty million years ago. Even a finely made predator would change over that many years, right?"

"True. And yet... many of our modern species, such as sharks, were first seen during this time and are still recognizable."

"Really?" Merrill asks with interest. "That's pretty neat." _There's so much that everyone knows that I don't_. "Is that a common thing?"

"Hardly," she chuckles. "There was a mass extinction event at the end of the Cretaceous period, marking the boundary to the Palogene period. It was during this Palogene period that mammals first began to truly diversify— have you not noticed the lack of large mammals in this bubble? This is the largest, and he is clearly patterned off a very small species of shrew, only grown enormous due to the demon's age."

Merrill hesitates a moment, then tentatively asks, "can you... explain what a mammal is? I don't—" She glances away. "I've heard the word used but..."

"Mammals are any species that produce milk for their young. They are typically covered in fur. Humans, elves, dogs, cats, deer, rodents, bats— the list goes on for some time." Morrigan doesn't sound put-out by the request, at least, any more so than she usually does; she simply answers the question, as factually as she handled the previous one.

"Oh! Okay, I understand, thank you," the elf says shyly, smiling again. "And mammals of great— or even moderate— size are a new thing? I mean, by the time measure that we're talking about. You mentioned mammals diversifying suddenly; does that ever go the other way? Maybe something happened that caused most of the dragon types to die off?"

"Very likely the extinction event I mentioned. Almost no tetrapods — that is to say, animals with four legs— survived; we had expected dragons to be one of them, as we have found fossils very similar to the known species of dragons, but perhaps they did die off, and returned over the following period. That would produce very different species filling the same ecological niche, in the same way that elephants and cows today fill the niche left behind by plant-eating dinosaurs during this period."

"Interesting. So the High Dragons of not so old were preceded by the the, umm, Higher Dragons of the very old. I wonder... High Dragons's biggest competitors before us were giants and maybe spider queens. But Higher Dragons would have had to compete with dinosaurs. I wonder if they were even mightier than High Dragons because of that."

"Very likely. Though, to be certain, there were less winged creatures that could compete with them— perhaps that is why they nested in caves, like Griffons?"

Merrill nods slowly. "I wonder where that leads." She gestures at the inky blackness beyond the second drop off, behind the rift. "If that goes outside, then it would make only that small tunnel we came through a possible approach for predators. Which she could have easily blocked. Nothing big enough to threaten her in the slightest could have entered that way." She pauses. "Wait, it has to lead outside, or she couldn't have ever left. Unless she grew up and never left here, which seems unlikely. Or she could shapeshift I guess, like you. Or teleport like me." She grins at Morrigan, amused at the idea of a dragon mage.

"It is unlikely— though had I not read a dozen firsthand accounts, I would have suspected it unlikely that dragons could cause windstorms with their wings or breathe lightning, either, so perhaps it is the case. Still, it seems far more likely that the tunnel leads outside the cave system."

Before Merrill can reply, she's interrupted by a loud call. "Daisy, Daisy! You have— come do time magic!"

Snickering, the elf looks over, then back at Morrigan. "I suspect we should get over there before he comes to carry us," she says in a low voice as she starts to move.

"Does he intend to raise them here and now?" she wonders, following Merrill. "It would perhaps be best to prepare somewhere for them to be kept warm and safe before we move them."

"Oh I don't plan to do it now regardless. I'd get halfway through and either pass out or have to dip into my venavis," she assures Morrigan. "He'll be disappointed but I think he'll understand that it would be terrible to free them only to let them die in their shells." She raises the volume of her words as they near rather pointedly.

A whine of protest greets them as they round the corner of the alcove, revealing a massive nest of ferns and other foliage nearly four feet in height. Bull peers over the edge, hand extended to pull them up. "But dragons," he says, pouting. "Yeah, fine, fine," he adds with a sigh. "Been here for eighty million years, a few more weeks is fine I guess. But seriously, you guys need to see this."

Morrigan doesn't take the hand, proving herself an adept climber; she perches atop the nest, peering down at the clutch of a dozen or so eggs in wonder and delight.

"A dozen eggs?" Merrill blurts out in wonder. "That's— that's incredible!" She approaches one, reaching out to slowly stroke the curve of it. _It's taller than me and almost as wide around. Oh, it's not smooth? It looks it but there are tiny whorls._ She leans in closer to peer at the smooth brown and slate blue egg. _They look almost like little whirlpools. Or pinwheels, but— scales? Like little whirlpool scales._

"Fourteen actually," Dagna reports. "All roughly the same size, all of them showing up clearly on the camera so still alive near as we can tell."

Marian rests her cheek against one, stroking the shell gently — clearly having forgotten her prohibition against touching them. "They're alive," she whispers. "Frozen, but alive."

"Alive..." Merrill whispers softly, eyes wide.

"Yup!" Bull grins, almost bouncing on his feet. "Which means your dissertation woes are over, and your worries about funding and such Daisy. Each of these would count for the live capture reward; that's twenty-five million. _Per egg_."

"You can't— Bull, what do they want with the dragons?" asks Marian, frowning.

"Stuff," Bull says brightly. "Our, the Chargers, can't claim any of it due to our Contract. Neither can Blackwall or the Templar. Not sure how your deal with the grad students and help is but..."

"It's a weighted share of any monetary goods found. Ten percent off the top to the universities, then four shares to the three heads— me, Merrill and Flem— well, I guess Morrigan now. So that's fifty million and change to us. Double share to the grad students, twenty-five. And then a share to everyone else, twelve and a half." Dagna hums softly. "That's... a lot of science."

" _Bull_." Marian's voice leaves no room for nonsense. "What do they _want_ with them?"

"I'm not sure I want to sell dragon eggs," Merrill protests.

Bull studies Marian for a moment. "Was expecting that," he says slowly, nodding at Merrill. "But wasn't expecting you to be so... adamant about animals. What's that about?"

"They're not animals. I couldn't _feel_ Fluffy the way I can _feel_ these eggs. They feel like their mother. What do the Qunari want with them? Will they kill them? Hurt them in any way?"

"What do you mean, feel?" Merrill cuts in, her hand still on the shell. "Magically?"

"You know, feel. Yes, magically. Like how Mabari feel different than dogs, or elves different than dwarves. Like how you can't really sense Dagna magically, but you can me? Why isn't this ringing a bell?"

"I had no idea you were a medium," admits Morrigan. "Where were you trained?"

"A what? I'm not— what?" says Marian, blinking.

"Medium?" Merrill and Dagna both echo. "That's a new term in this context," the dwarf continues, eyes gleaming.

"Really? You haven't come across the term before?" asks Morrigan of Dagna, shocked. "A medium is a mage, always; at the very least, a hedge mage with a singular talent. One who can call forth spirits easily from the Fade, though there are a slew of secondary talents that coincide with the primary. Such as the ability to sense a connection to the Fade."

"Oh! I have come across that before, I just didn't realize it was _real_. The text I read it in discredited it rather thoroughly. Then again, he was a pompous ass so..." Dagna shrugs.

"Wait, spirits? As in Fade spirits? Like demons? The eggs are _possessed_?" Bull wouldn't look more distraught if he'd watched his own mother gutted in front of him. Not that he would recognize his own mother, as the Qun means that all qunari are raised in communal schools from infancy by caretakers.

"They are either possessed, or—"

Marian cuts Morrigan off. "Not unless their mother is too, and everyone here but Dagna. No, they just feel like _people_."

Merrill gasps softly. "Wait, you mean— the cameras! Pyro, you said they showed up on the camera, right? _How well did they show up_?"

Dagna stares a moment, then lifts the camera. Taking a picture, she studies it. "Marian, double check what I'm seeing with your mage eyes?"

Marian lifts her head, peering at the picture, and blinks. "Yeah," she says, softly. "Maybe they're magic. Dragons are said to be, right? High Dragons, not Drakes or whatnot? They cast spells, of a sort, despite not being particularly intelligent."

"Dragon mages," Merrill breathes softly, then nods firmly. "I'm not selling my eggs. I can't decide what the rest of you do, but I'm keeping my two."

"Fifty million?" Bull says incredulously. "You'd pass up fifty mill just like that?"

"Bull... they're _people_. At least as smart as the halla. Would you take fifty million for two infants?"

"Halla aren't people, they're just clever animals," Dagna corrects her. "Mabari aren't even people. And people do buy them, all the time. Hell, we bought the ones for this trip!"

"Well, sure, but if we asked to buy them under mysterious conditions, offering way more than they're worth, and insisting on silence..." She glances at Bull.

"Look, I can't— dragons are important," Bull tries to explain. "They... Everything has a place under the Qun. Dragons, as befits them," he glances over at the frozen dragon with a look of awe, "have a large place."

"I mean, I don't know how to raise a dragon— I can be convinced to sell, if they've got a setup and experts and know what they're doing. But this is important. High Dragons have been extinct for centuries, there's no way I can risk it without knowing a lot more than I do."

Bull sighs. "I guess that's fair. I can't really tell you much— if only because I don't really know all the details myself— but I know who to contact to get you someone to start talking with. As long as you're serious about being willing to sell; wasting their time wouldn't go well."

"Still not selling my magic dragons," Merrill mutters, patting the nearest egg protectively. "What about you, Morrigan?"

"I'm not certain," she says slowly. "I would wish to speak with this expert as well. Dr Janar?"

"Eh, if two out of the three of you sell I will. Honestly, I know myself well enough to not trust myself to decide for myself," Dagna says with a shrug.

"And that's why you're a good mentor after all," crows Marian.

Dagna blushes a little. "Thanks?"

"Well, guess I can't get better than that," Bull says with a sigh. "The kiddies will probably sell out of hand at least."

"If it's not a good idea, I'll buy them out," says Marian. "I don— I mean, my brother doesn't hold with slavery, I'm sure he'll spot me."

"I didn't hear that," Bull declares soundly as he strides away to marvel over the eggs.

Marian winces. "Someday I'll stop saying things that make people want to kill me," she mutters. "Well one thing that's not here, is Clem. We should go help make camp and figure out what our next plan is."

"That seems wise," Merrill offers. "But I think Bull is more worried about his bosses' reaction, rather than him being mad at you."

"No, I'm pretty sure he's under orders to kill anyone who would stand between his bosses and dragon artifacts," she says, with a sigh. "Hence, my crack about people wanting to kill me."

"Well... I guess we should make sure that their dragon barns are really nice," Merrill says firmly.

"Do you think barns? I would have assumed they'd need some sort of giant complex, multiple acres of hunting land..." She shrugs. "Point taken, I suppose." Spying that Morrigan and Bull are standing closer to the eggs, discussing something, she adds, in a lower voice: "How are you doing? After... yesterday?"

The elf tenses, shooting Marian a surprised look. "I— better? I guess. I didn't think—" She ducks her gaze, then admits, "I didn't think you cared. That you were angry with me." _Blamed me._

"Of course I care," she says, sounding a little hurt. "I just— I didn't want— I know I wouldn't want attention called to it in front of Morrigan, and she's been lurking around all day. I figured it's better to distract her and keep her off your case as best I can."

"Oh," Merrill says in a small voice. "It's just... you haven't spoken to me the whole day except for work. I just thought— thank you. For still—" She swallows, waving a hand in a helpless gesture. "Sorry, I just have more experience with betrayal than loyalty. But you don't deserve that. So... thank you and I'm sorry."

Marian looks down at her feet. "And maybe... maybe a little bit... I'm not as... good as I sound," she admits. "It's easier talking to Bull. He's not... He doesn't remind me..."

"Because he saved us," Merrill whispers. _I promised to look after you and I failed._ "I guess I get it. I want cuddles when I'm sad and hurting but I get not wanting reminders. I just wish I could have brought Fluffy with us. He's surprisingly good at cuddling. But he hates leaving the barn, because the snow is weird. Given that he lived in this tropical jungle, it makes sense though."

"Because he's a man," she says, frowning a bit. "Because he's not..."

Merrill blinks a few times. "Because the Sister was female?" she asks tentatively.

"Because she accused me of—" She takes a deep breath, shuddering. "She talked about you, a lot. About how I shouldn't want—"

Merrill winces. "That talk," she realizes tiredly. "That explains a lot about why you..." She trails off, looking sad and worried. "You know she's wrong though, right? We're not evil because we can love each other."

"I— I don't know what to think," she whispers. "I— I believe in the Maker. I believe in a literal Andraste, that she died and was resurrected, that she was bodily lifted into the Golden City to be with the Maker. That's the Nicene Creed; without that, you're not Andrastaen. Without that, I'm not— who am I? And yet— and yet, the Sister— she's ordained. She's blessed. Holy. The Templars are given power by the Maker to carry out the work they do."

"You're you. You can believe in all that and still love— a woman. You can believe in all that and still hate the Sister and Templar," Merrill says slowly. "I don't know all that much about Chantry dogma but I know people say that the Maker has left the world. So... the Chantry and Templar might once have been ordained by Him, but maybe they aren't anymore?"

"He turned His back on us, for being sinful and fallen. When we breached the Golden City, it became corrupted, blackened, just by our very presence. So to save what He could, the Maker tore it in half, creating the Golden City of Heaven and the Blackened City of Hell. Only one woman in all of history could turn His gaze back to mankind— Andraste, the Bride of the Maker, whose love for humanity was so strong it called to the Maker. But we murdered her. We are fallen and sinful, and the Maker will not return until all obey the Chant He left for us. The Sister is obeying the Chant, and I am... pushing the boundaries. Blackening the world with my arrogance."

Merrill wrinkles her nose. "That sounds... harsh," she finally settles on, not wanting to be rude. _Like a Father that kicks his children out of the home until they agree to slavishly obey his rules. Cruel. Repugnant._

"It can't be. The Maker loves us. Wants the best for us. We just... deserve punishment."

Merrill gives her a look, frowning. "Does the Chantry support abusive relationships?"

Marian hesitates. "No," she says, after a long moment. "But... the Chantry feels that... if a relationship is modeled after the Maker and his Bride, it cannot become abusive. That abusive relationships are caused by incorrect theology."

_But that doesn't— that's a circle. If it looks like X, it's okay and things are okay if it looks like X._ "But how the Maker is described sounds abusive. 'You made me hurt you, because I love you and you didn't obey.' That's a really, really common line in stuff. About abusive relationships, I mean."

Marian flinches. "I— I know. And— it's not the only thing. The Chantry insists if I love the Maker enough, I'd stop being a lesbian. That I'm..." She shudders, shaking her head. "But it can't be wrong. The Church can't be wrong. Because if so— because if so then—"

"Then half of what you knew has been wrong," Merrill finishes softly.

But she shakes her head again. "Then I'm an apostate." The word hangs heavy in the air, and Marian flinches, already preparing to reject it. Preparing to deny it.

"Would that really be the worst thing? If you could be yourself, if you could be happy and brilliant and have a loving family and a good career and do good in the world— would it really be that bad if the Chantry labeled you that?"

"Of course not," she says bitterly. "But that's not what apostates get."

"Why not? The Chantry rules the UP but it doesn't rule all of the world. You... you could come back to Russia with me," Merrill offers, mouth dry.

"I grew up in the Free Caribbean, moved to the UK— still the same. Would Russia be better?"

"Russia— the Dalish, not the USSR— mostly worship the elven gods. There are some Chantry outposts, yes, but they don't have a lot of power." She smiles wanly. "Not to say it's perfect but that particular label has no meaning there."

"It sounds nice," she says quietly. "It— It might be worth a shot. But I don't want to put you in more danger, if they're going to chase me..." _And frankly, I'm still not sure we get out of here alive._

"I'd rather be in danger than alone," Merrill whispers.

"I couldn't live with myself if I got you killed," she whispers, shuddering.

"But it wouldn't be you that killed me. It would be them."

"It's not much different," she says, shivering.

"It would be to me. I would forgive you, if you needed it. I wouldn't blame you but you'd have it anyway."

"Would that help you? In my shoes? If I had— if I had done it, if I had died and taken out the Sister, because she threatened you— would that have helped? Knowing I didn't blame you?"

"...eventually," Merrill admits after a long moment. "It would help with the... guilt, if not the grief."

"If— If we survive, I'll think about going with you. Or maybe we go somewhere else, together. I'll— I'd like to spend more time with you, to learn another way to live. But if we don't... it's not your fault. Blame my idiot brother, for siccing the Templar on us. Alright?"

"I'll blame the Templar," Merrill says firmly. "If the Templar there are anything like the ones here, then maybe he didn't do anything either. Not anything worth being hurt for."

"...Maybe," she admits. "I don't really know his life." _I just can't help but think he's become a blood mage in my absence._


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Searching for the missing Clem, the group has made an amazing discovery: prehistoric dragons, including a clutch of eggs frozen in the time bubble that Merrill thinks she can unfreeze safely. For all that they might now be rich, they still have to find Clem and make their way back to the Templar safely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Discussion of rape, suicide, character death

They make camp near the entrance of the cave, back where the halla had to stop. Merrill casts her spirit ward; they settle, putting up their tents, Morrigan's two grad students still noticeably staying back from Merrill.

Marian and Merrill share a tent, near the halla and mabari. Grim and Morrigan do likewise. Nobody comments. Nobody dares.

Abernath finds himself struggling to get to sleep. He can't help it; he keeps thinking of the Templar, of there being a blood mage in their midsts and the others doing nothing; worse, helping protect and hide her from the Chantry. He gets up, taking a walk, looking for something to take his mind off the problems, to help him settle. _Just a quick walk, won't go far._

When Morrigan wakes, her senses tell her something is wrong immediately. The feline slinks off of Grim's bedroll and away from the camp, sniffing at the air, trying to sense what was disturbed. _There_ , her nose tells her. _The ward was disturbed— it remains intact, but someone exited it, leaving a slight wrinkle in the smooth circle._

She lets herself out of the ward, trusting her instincts to keep her safe from demonic influence. _Where did that idiot go?_

Not towards the tunnel out of the cave evidently, which makes sense as the Chargers are keeping a watch there. Of course, this means there's really only one other place they could be; towards the Rift. Sure enough, Morrigan soon finds the younger of her two grad students. He's got a blanket wrapped around him as he stares up at the frozen sloth demon just a scant foot from the peg and twine perimeter they'd set up to mark where the Rift will react to mages. As she prowls closer, already crafting the scathing lecture he's going to suffer through, she realizes that his mouth his moving as if in conversation.

Disquieting, given the context.

Moving faster, she flows into her human shape, his name already on her lips before the last of her fur vanishes. He jerks, head twisting around to look at her. His face twists in horror, eyes gleaming a sickly green-flecked yellow and his hand rises. "No! I won't let you take me too!" he shrieks, a weak lash of electricity arcing towards her.

Morrigan bats the lightning away with a bare hand— it's no threat to her, not really. She only realizes the true danger a moment later, as the bolt hits the ground a few feet from the lesser mage and smudges a bit of rune carved into the ground.

Then everything goes bright, and she sees nothing at all.

* * *

Marian sits bolt upright with a shriek, the unearthly green light flooding the air inside her tent. "Merrill, get up, we have to move," she shouts, crawling out from the tent, ready to fight—

Nothing? The still night, lit by a green flash, but otherwise quiet and ordinary.

_What... happened?_

Merrill scrambles out of her blankets after Marian with only her staff and a threadbare t-shirt. She's stalled a moment by the lack of obvious problem but it doesn't take long for her to see the subtle one. "The Rift! It's tearing wider!" Rushing forward, she calls back. "Mages to the Rift, mages to the Rift! Bring your lyrium!"

_The rift_! Marian rushes deeper into the cave, grabbing her staff as she goes, fear lancing through her. _What's happened— if that fumbles, if it unfreezes everything, or worse, demolishes it— maybe even slides back through time—_ She swallows as she reaches Morrigan, already casting. "What do I do?" Marian demands.

"Stand back," says Morrigan. "This is delicate work. Where's Sabrae?"

"Right here." Merrill looks over the Rift. _Fuck that's really not— okay. Okay. Think. Think it out, then act, but don't dawdle over it. Okay. Something has caused the Rift to start tearing. It's an uneven spread, so it's not just pressure from the Fade._ "What happened?" Far behind them, the other students are only just now exiting their tents.

"A breach— we need to stabilize this edge, fast. The Veil is encroaching on the phenomenon, trying to smother it. Crawl under the dragon and tell me what the smudged rune said," Morrigan adds. "Marian, I need your staff."

Marian swallows her pride as she hands over the staff to Morrigan, who takes it in both hands so she can use it to focus mana directly to hold back the breach.

Merrill glances at the circle and shakes her head. "The ritual circle is— something, I don't have the word. But stay off of it. Doesn't matter, a tear is a tear. I know how to fix it but I— it's too big, too many spots for just— Marian." She swallows, turning to face the human. "Time to prove how fast you can learn. When you healed me, my limbs, you were able to target just the cuts on the skin. Did you guide each bit of that or did you use a custom spell?"

"I— I guided the power. Why?" Marian replies.

"Because I know how but I don't have the control to mend all the frayed edges of the magical— weave, I guess, that contains the Rift. Like thread into skin or a patch over a hole in your pants. But it has to be done at the same time or they'll unravel. It's too big for me to do, I can't control that many vectors at once. I can give you the power and show you how but, umm, you'll have to trust me. A lot."

"With my life," she says quickly. "What do I do?"

"Touching," sneers Morrigan. "I can hold this only a few moments, so teach quickly."

"I know a method of— a way to— fuck it. I know a blood magic technique that will allow me to not only give you access to my power but grants a partial possession on you so I can not just demonstrate the spell to fix this but do it in your head," Merrill blurts out in a rush. "It's not mind control, I swear. I would never dominate you like that. Just— really close to it."

Marian takes a deep breath. "If I don't, we all die. Right?" She lets out her breath. "Alright. Do it."

Merrill stares at her for a stunned instant, then nods. Lifting her staff, she swipes her hand over the head of staff, along the sharp plane of the crystal there. Blood gushes from the wound, far more than should from such a shallow cut, then hovers over the wound like a thick mist. Offering her hand, she gives Marian an apologetic look. "Sorry. You have to ingest it."

Marian winces. _This is going to be disgusting. Like some kind of vampire._ Still, she eyes the pulsing rift warily. _No choice. Have to do it._ Marian pulls Merrill's arm toward her, lowering her lips to sip the blood.

A surge of power hits Marian and rips through her, better than the best lyrium draught she's ever taken. Lyrium is powerful but empty, a chilled and too-bright power. This is warm and buzzing in her veins, surging through her body like adrenaline, sleep and sex all in one. In that moment, Marian understands exactly why some people use blood magic. Merrill's voice is a low croon in her mind's ear, scarcely louder than the demons she can hear all-too-clearly: ~I know it's a lot. But you have to focus now. Ignore how it feels. Never notice how it feels.~

_Never notice — how can I not notice? How can I not— with this power, I could never be helpless again. I could be great. Mighty. I could be safe, my family could be safe, everyone could be safe — I could protect Merrill, protect my twin, protect my siblings. I could defeat the entire Templar battalion with just a sliver of this power. I could—_

_Focus. The rift. Focus on the rift. Merrill. What do I do?_

~I'm right here. I'll help you stay you, I promise. Alright. The Rift. First, you need to be able to see what you need to see.~ A spell slides into Marian's thoughts; the gestures, words and even theory drifting through her thoughts like mist. ~I'm sorry, complex things are harder to send. I'm trying as best I can but I need you to be clever and quick. I have faith in you.~

_I see it_. And she does— the scraps of theory find resonance in Marian's mind, find foundations and formulae well beyond what Merrill expected. It seems Marian's done a lot of reading on her own, above and beyond her classical education; she isn't an expert, she doesn't know what she doesn't know, but she can understand it once shown, can extrapolate from first principles, can pick up the subtleties Merrill can't quite bring across, filling in the gaps.

And she has control, nearly perfect control. The power Merrill feeds her she banks, holding it at bay effortlessly, waiting to see where she needs to apply the patch. When she casts, her motions are efficient, her power tightly controlled, so that she wastes none of the power she's been given. As the matrix springs into being before her eyes, it's not long before she spots the tear. _There. Now what?_

~Gods you're humbling. And incredible (sexy). Sorry, focusing. Okay, now you see what needs to be fixed. It's actually not that hard, in theory.~ A shimmer of an image snaps into place, a thin tendril of magic created just so as it winds around itself in the air.

~See how it's coiled? Woven spirit energy coating a core of elemental magic, then coated itself in a raw magic shell? That's the trick— the Veil will try to denature magic, so you have to hide it inside raw magic. It'll still negate it, in time, so you have to work quickly.~ And of course, raw magic like that is nearly impossible to guide. But that must be what the spirit magic is for, to act as glue, just as the elemental magic, being much easier to move around, acts as the controlling agent. ~You're going to need a lot of thread for this patch job, and you won't be able to take the time to make more once you start. So you have to make every last thread at the start, then hold it all steady while you sew every edge at once.~

_Wouldn't it be easier without the spirit magic?_ wonders Marian, and her mental image shows Merrill what she's thinking: a scaffolding of elemental magic, spines sticking out from a central coil, to which the raw mana would attach directly. Elemental magic can hold less raw mana, but by using more of it, thin protrusions, she'd create a more stable scaffolding. But the sheer focus needed to pull it off would be incredible.

~Umm. In theory? Can you really do that for as much of the thread as we'd need? I mean, I can't see a reason why it wouldn't work if it were possible, just, that without spirit magic to bind the two others together, it would, umm, yeah.~

_Normally, no. But with this much power... yes. I can do it._

Marian sets to work, and it's a joy to watch from the inside: the lightning she summons to act as the scaffolding comes when she beckons like a dog, eager and willing. Almost too eager; she has to hold it back, but she's clearly well used to doing so, to shaping it in ways that the lightning doesn't wish to be controlled. Coating it in raw mana is more difficult, and at times she seems as though she will drop the threads, but always she focuses, pulling control back as she continues. Her ability to block out everything and focus on what she's doing means she stops hearing Merrill at some point, stops feeling the numbness in her fingers, stops noticing the weakness in her body, the shortness of breath.

Marian stitches the threads in place, gives them a mental pat, and steps back to watch, to see if they'll hold. She lets out a breath, and her vision swims with blackness as she collapses into a heap.

When she wakes, mouth dry as dust, every joint aching and her stomach attempting devour itself, she realizes she's laying down. And there's a warm and mostly soft object pressing against her side. One with long, black hair and the faint scent of wild flowers and musk, with an undercurrent of blood. "Hey, you awake?" a voice asks as whatever Marian is laying on bumps under her slightly. Are they moving?

"No," she whimpers, sharp pain lancing through her throat and up into her sinuses.

"Been there," Dagna says sympathetically. "Here, sip slowly," she orders her student as she slips a straw between Marian's lips. "Beef broth."

Marian sips the lukewarm broth greedily, the fluid easing the pain in her throat if not the pain in her head. _Mana burn. I'm entirely dry_. Already, she begins to long for that powerful, seductive feeling, the blood magic feeling. Already, she begins to wonder if there's some way she can replenish her mana from her own blood, or perhaps from Dagna's. _No. Bad girl. Stop it._

"Was starting to get pretty worried; Morrigan said you were both just wrung dry but damn. We're about halfway out of the bubble by the way." The straw is pulled away, then replaced. "And now some herbal tea."

Marian sips the tea, frowning faintly. _Halfway out? We're leaving? How long was I..?_ "Time?" she croaks.

"Almost seven hours. We broke camp early early. It's about eleven or so, probably maybe. Time is hard to judge this far south even without temporal magic mucking up watches and stuff. Anyway. The Rift tearing wrecked the spirit ward Merrill set up and Morrigan only knows the personal version. So, well, no point in hanging around."

_Morrigan only knows— "Merrill,_ " hisses Marian urgently.

"Merrill? Oh, can you not— she's basically on top of you? She's still out though, hasn't woken up at all yet, unlike you. This time is much longer than the other two, I think you might actually remember this one," Dagna says with a tone of encouragement.

_...Other two? I woke up before? And— I can't feel my legs. Or my— no, I feel something warm. I guess I can kind of feel my torso. Too much pain. My head is a fucking nightmare right now._ "Murgh," she adds, helpfully.

"That was about as far as you got last time. The first time you just opened your eyes and whined, then passed back out. But hey, progress, right? Want more tea or broth? You need to replenish something fierce."

"Broth," she croaks. Then, a moment later, she adds, "lyrium."

"Sorry, no lyrium. But have more broth," Dagna says gently, replacing the straw. As Marian sips, Dagna continues to ramble. "You managed to seal up the Rift, you'll be glad to hear. It grew about twenty percent though, which is... probably bad? But we're not all dead, so yay."

Marian stops drinking for a moment to ask, "All?" before she resumes.

"Oops." Dagna sighs. "Yeah. Abernath. He... Morrigan heard him leaving the camp and followed him. He was talking to the sloth demon and when she confronted him, he shouted and cast. And hit the ritual circle on the ground. That was what unbalanced the Rift." The dwarf hesitates, not sure if she should finish right now.

Marian makes a face. "Damn," she whispers.

"...yeah. Damn is about right. Still, it was fast." _Bull does his job well. Never seen a person split in half before outside of bad movies. Come to think of it, is it still a person once they're demon-ized? Huh._ "So yeah. The other History student is freaking out about everything. Morrigan slapped her until she stopped shrieking, which was nice."

"Sorry," Marian whispers. _I didn't think I'd pass out this hard— I thought I could handle this._

"For what? Saving all of us?" Dagna asks, baffled.

"Leaving you— picking pieces," she croaks. _Ow._

"More broth," Dagna orders. "Also, saved our lives. And how often have you looked after me?" she points out. "Seriously, it's fine. Even if you're about to say that's your job, then I'll counter with you cleaning up after me after the last Arcane holiday party. Bringing your professor chicken soup, Gatorade and all of the acetaminophen is not part of your job. So."

Marian is quiet for a while, drinking her broth. Finally, she says quietly, "Don't tell. Blood magic."

"Most of the group didn't see much— the Rift's glow covered you all up pretty well. I cleaned the blood off your mouth and bandaged Merrill's hand," Dagna says quietly. "Morrigan, Bull and Lysas are the only ones that saw anything. I spoke with Lysas, he won't say anything; he's studying the Fade, remember? He has a fairly good idea what you prevented so I'm pretty sure he'd have accepted help from a Darkspawn. I think he might have a little bit of hero crush on you both."

"...Bull?" she asks, hesitantly.

"Not sure about hero crush, but I've seen him giving you and Merrill appreciative looks from time to time. He's," she snickers, "a real horny dude."

A smile flickers across Marian's lips, but it fades quickly. "Guard," she asks, plaintively. _I don't think he'd take advantage of us, but I've been wrong about men before._

"Yeah, he's right outside," Dagna assures her. "Been real mother-hen like. I think the blood magic spooked him a little, but he likes you both. He's not going to let the Templar do a thing. Neither will I," she adds, giving Marian's hand a squeeze. "Tea now?"

Marian nods, feeling exhaustion swirling at the edges of her consciousness. "Yeah." _As much nutrients as I can get before I pass out again._

"Good. I'll be sure you're awake before we leave the bubble." So you can be ready when we get back to the Templar, she doesn't say out loud. "We're going to camp for lunch soon."

"Eat," she orders Dagna, her eyes drifting closed. _No, stay awake, don't— keep focus._

"It's alright," Dagna murmurs, stroking Marian's forehead. "Rest a bit more. It's our turn."

"Okay," she whispers, and with a little sigh, lets unconsciousness claim her once more.

* * *

It's shouting that wakes her the second (well, fourth) time. A few seconds of panic grips her before she realizes it's Dagna's excited shouting. Bull's shout, on the other hand, seems more challenging than excited. The strange shriek right after his shout, which in turn is followed by more shouts and then crashing sounds is a bit worrying too. Amidst all this, Marian hears a faint groan from right next to her, followed by a pained whimper.

Marian sits up quickly, though she regrets it as her head swims, pain swamping her vision. She reaches for her mana reservoir and regrets it as her stomach heaves; it's all she can do to avoid vomiting. "Merrill," she croaks. "Get up."

Another pained whimper is her only answer. Looking around, Marian spots the covered cups with straws Dagna had used for her earlier, both full and sitting on warming runes. Aside from those, the back of the covered sledge seems pretty empty. Well, aside from Merrill and most of their blankets.

Marian grabs one of the cups, hoping it's broth, and sips as she pokes her head out from the sledge.

The first thing she sees is Dagna's leather clad ass. The second thing she sees is the headless body of some large reptile that the dwarf is bend over and poking at. "Interesting," she mutters. "Muscle tissue looks shinier than typical, I think. Wish I knew more biology. Too many ethical limitations but could be real useful right now."

There's a loud whoop off to the side, then Bull shouts, "you want more of this? Is that what you want, you scaled fuckers? You want some of The! Iron! Bull? Well then, you jumped-up chicken: FIGHT ME IF YOU THINK YOU'RE HARD ENOUGH!" Some kind of beast roars, a strange blend of hiss and shriek but with more reverb to it than either of those words would imply, and then more crashing noises can be heard.

"Loud," Merrill groans softly. "Washapping?"

"...why is bull fighting dinosaurs?" asks Marian in a croak.

"Fluffy," Merrill mutters, still more asleep than awake.

"Mmmh? Oh hey, you're up and moving?" Dagna straightens up and turns back towards the sledge. "So, new development, some of the dinos seem to _also_ be up and moving." She shrugs. "Still trying to figure that out."

"AND THAT'S WHY YOU DON'T FUCKING STEP TO _ALLA 'DIS_! 'CAUSE YOU'LL GET— COCKSUCKER, GET OFF MY HEAD!"

Marian stares at Dagna for a moment, groping for words. Finally, at a loss, she sticks the straw in her mouth and sucks down some broth instead.

Dagna nods at her. "Yeah, pretty much my reaction at first too," she replies, then gets distracted by something off to the side. "Wow. Never saw someone headbutt a dinosaur before. I mean, obviously, but not even on TV or whatever. Bull looks so happy right now, it's adorable."

"Shouldn't we... stop him?" she wonders, frowning. "We can't do as much science on dead animals."

"HAVE AT YE, FOUL BEAST! LOOK UPON THINE ASSKICKING AND REPENT YOUR CHICKENSHIT WAYS!"

"Not sure if we could but no anyway," Dagna says, shaking her head. "They seem panicked and very aggressive. This one tried to eat Blackwall," she adds, nudging the body at her feet. "He killed it, but it had friends, which is what Bull is playing with right now. Based on the fangs and claws, it's a predator."

"...it's a raptor of some kind," Marian says, oddly impressed. "They hunt in packs? I think that was a theory anyway."

"Big packs evidently," Dagna agrees. "Or maybe this is more than one pack?" She shrugs. "I doubt they're acting typically at the moment. My theory is that the bubble is shrinking or maybe dissipating; releasing animals first, with plants to follow or something."

"We _broke_ it?" squeals Marian, horrified.

"Technically Aber-notch or whatever broke it," Dagna corrects Marian. "Maybe broke it. Might not actually be broken broken, just maybe buggy-broken."

"...Have we seen frozen animals?"

"Yep, dozens and dozens of the on the way here," Dagna replies cheerfully. Then pauses. "Hmm. That's a good point..." Turning, she calls out, "anyone see any still frozen animals right now?"

"HAH! GOOD ONE KREM! FUCKING GRADE A TEAMWORK!"

"Yes," calls Morrigan. "A shrew."

"Huh. Any dinosaurs?"

"I can see a frozen flying one," Lysas offers from where he's hiding behind Blackwall.

"So not all of them. Size? Proximity?"

"Assuming it was Aber's fuck-up that caused this and the effects are consistent since that event, I would lean towards proximity to the spell circle," Dagna replies after a little thought. "I recall passing a frozen pack of this species— or close to it anyway— at least once. Bigger and smaller dinos as well." She glances away briefly. "I think Bull is almost done living out a childhood fantasy. You hungry? Merrill stirring yet?"

Marian holds up her broth cup and nods, glancing behind her. "We're good," she says to the elf within.

"I'll grab some more broth for her; hopefully she'll force down the beef, it's better for her," Dagna replies with a nod. "Anyway, you rest more, we're going to get moving again." Whistling cheerfully, she ambles off, already trying figure out if Bull would be willing to let her have a dino corpse or two.

"DAMN THAT WAS FUN! ANYONE SEE ANY MORE? BIGGER ONES MAYBE?"

They do get on their way as planned, and Dagna's prediction that the bubble's unfreezing was based on proximity, not size or material, pans out. Roughly eighty percent of the way from the ritual site, the landscape has bloomed back into life. Strangely, it's still warm there; Morrigan tentatively suggests that the Fade is 'keeping the memory of eighty million years' in place and producing warmth, though she also suspects it shan't last for very long in human terms. That's not the big surprise however. That goes to the fact that as they step out into the unfrozen area, the crescent moon _jumps_ in place. It vanishes from overhead back behind the horizon.

Once Dagna is able to connect to a satellite, the party is stunned to discover that it's not yet four am, a scant twenty minutes after the Rift destabilized. After some discussion, Grim volunteers to step back into the bubble and return, but it's discovered that there's no further temporal flux. Blackwall calls the halt to any more experimentation due to observing a rather ominous buildup of clouds above them. Dagna protests mildly, but, even weakened, Marian is a match for her boss and the group starts back to the base. It's close though, with the leading edge of a truly monstrous blizzard right on their heels the whole way.

They come back to a base in turmoil. Knight-Corporal Sadatt rushes out to meet the party, embracing Veness Briggs tightly with some relief; Marian and Merrill exchange glances at that, but nobody comments. Nobody wants to shit on clear affection, bordering on love.

"We were concerned when you didn't return," Sadatt says, frowning. "There's been another death."

"Who? We just got here?" Bull glances over his shoulder. "Actually, never mind, we need to get settled in before we're buried."

"Luka Yang. The culprit seems to be Clemence Hancock, we've confined him for the time being and are attempting to interrogate him."

"We lost Abernath," says Veness quietly. "An accident."

"Accidently my small but perky ass," Dagna scoffs. "Dumbass left the ward and listened to a demon. Damn near got us all killed. Anyway. Blizzard? Blackbeard says it's going to be a real fuck-up of a storm."

Sadatt peers past them at the gathering stormclouds, high in the night sky. "Right. Yes, let's get you inside."

"Actually," says Marian, wincing a bit. "I suppose I'd better go see if I can help get sense out of Clem— he only listens to me or Dagna, most of the time. So unless you'd like to go," she adds, glancing to her mentor.

Dagna shrugs. "You're better with Orange than me. I'll get our stuff squared away and start on the write up of our trip."

"Krem, you organize a watch on everyone, I'll go with Bahith. Make sure there aren't any... _misunderstandings_." The Iron Bull grins broadly, eyes still a touch wild from the combat earlier.

Marian nods, smiling a little at Bull's protectiveness. _Still, it's not as though I'm looking forward to seeing Greagoir and the Sister again._

Marian gets half her preference at least; Knight-Captain Greagoir tracks her down almost instantly but the Sister at least is nowhere to be seen. For now. "Miss Amell," he says curtly, studying her. "We have a problem. Your full cooperation will go a long way to ensuring that the problem does not get to a point where drastic measures are required."

She tenses at the mention, cold sick fear curdling in her gut. "Of course. How can I help?"

Greagoir studies her for a moment, then grunts. "For the first, you can follow me." He gestures ahead, clearly wanting her to go first. "I require you to order your Tranquil to answer my questions."

_Follow or lead?_ She wonders, as she steps forward. "Of course. That's why I sought you out— I suspected he might give you trouble without Dr Janae to order him."

"He's currently being held in the holding pen," he says, a hint of regret or perhaps sympathy in slipping into his voice.

"Glad I'm coming along," Bull rumbles from a half dozen feet behind, causing Greagoir to tense. "Last time you lot had someone in there, I near to killed somebody. Kinda hopeful this time."

_Please don't_ , Marian thinks as loudly as she can. _Please don't remind him._ She's still unsure which Templar was present when she was being interrogated; the very last thing she wants is for Greagoir to decide a round two is required. "I am sure things will be different now," she says, as factually as she can, though her voice betrays her tension.

"That would be preferable," Greagoir agrees stiffly. "Despite the high tensions due to the various... incidents, procedure and order are important." He frowns, giving Marian a look. "You appear to be poorly, Miss Amell. Was there trouble during the last field excursion?"

"Yes," she replies, tense. "Abernath Kirk, one of the Korcari grad students, disturbed the rift. Dr Korcari, Dr Sabrae, and myself managed to contain the resulting disruption and stabilize the manifestation, but it drained me entirely of mana, and Dr Sabrae as well. Kirk is deceased."

Greagoir stumbles slightly, face turning grave and drawn. "Five. Five dead," he breathes out softly. "That's more than I've ever lost and this is just a research mission. What curse does this place suffer under?"

"You seemed awful quick to— nevermind," she says quickly, cutting herself off. "Let's just get this done with. Kirk's death was the only one from a risk we should have faced, the rest of this was hopefully Clem's fault."

"That first idiot too," Bull replies. "The one that turned into the ghost."

"Sure," she admits, not really wanting to think about Drass right now.

"There is the, shall we say, complexity that Tranquil do not commit murder of their own accord. Clemence is not the killer, merely the weapon," Greagoir says bluntly.

"Fine," she agrees. "So we figure out who used him and arrest them."

"As you say," Greagoir says with a nod, falling silent as they near the brig. "He's been cooperative as yet, so I—"

"Shit and piss," The Iron Bull cuts in abruptly. _And a whiff of blood underneath_. "A lot of it." He pushes past the pair, moving to enter first.

Marian follows hot on his heels, heart sinking. _No... Clemence..._ She gasps in shock as she takes in the scene: Clem's body dangles from a noose manufactured from his belt, swaying gently as they enter. He's still locked in his cell; his body is limp, cold, clearly long dead.

"What has— He should have been searched and stripped of anything that—" Greagoir slams his fist into the wall, eyes livid. "Damn this island! Damn it to the Black City's deepest pits!"

Entering the cell, Bull starts to look the body over. "No wounds on his hands. Necks's fucked up; this was done wrong, he strangled, struggled, for a while. Fifteen minutes or more maybe." _Fucking terrible way to die, even for one that doesn't know fear anymore._

Marian drops to her knees, letting out a small, strangled cry. _Clem... he suffered, at the end. He died slow and in pain. He was my responsibility and I let this happen._ "...He was Tranquil," she says, her voice a hushed whisper. It seems more respectful, somehow. "Tranquil don't feel despair. They don't feel anything. Someone did this to him."

"Tranquil do not— they would not fear this outcome, but they do act to preserve their life. He should have fought back. Unless... unless he was unable to do so. Blood magic," Greagoir says, voice growing agitated as he speaks.

"Are you hiding a blood mage among your Templar?" Marian snaps, hands shaking. "Because all of us were away when this happened."

"Lady has a point," Bull says blandly. "Four templar, two dwarves— one now I guess— and three humans. Narrows down the suspect pool a fair bit, doesn't it?"

Greagoir scoffs, glaring at Marian. "As if a blood mage could not have enspelled him before sending him back. Made him kill the dwarf, then himself."

"And you could have tortured him, strung him up, and be lying to my face," says Marian, only a slight quaver to her voice. "Are we dealing with facts or conjecture?"

Bull chuckles softly. "Well said," he rumbles. "Bruising says he was alive when he was strung up but that's about as much as I can figure. Not a detective, just muscle. "

Greagoir's face darkens and he takes a step towards Marian but checks himself when Bull surges over to stand just behind Marian, a delighted, savage grin on his face. "You might wish to take care in the company you are keeping of late, Miss Amell," the Templar says in a cold voice. "It seems to be leading you astray of the Maker's light."

She bows her head as if he _had_ struck her, trembling faintly. "I remember," she whispers. "You can tell your Sister I learned my lesson."

That, strangely, seems to cause the Templar to hesitate. "What lesson was that, exactly?"

"That I am filthy. That I am weak. That I am to be punished. That if I presume to travel freely, without guard, I will be made Tranquil and used as her— plaything," she says, changing words at the last minute, though not before she shudders.

He pales. "That is not— she said that? Directly?" he demands.

"It was clear," she whispers, fighting the urge to vomit.

"I— I apologize, but I must have a clear answer. Did she threaten to rape you?" Greagoir asks, voice gentle but demanding.

"Not... verbally," she whispers. "But—"

"Go on," Bull rumbles softly. "Take a deep breath, then explain. We got time, don't we Greggy?" The Templar's mouth flattens into a line but he just nods curtly.

Marian takes a deep breath, then another. "She focused on two s-sins," she says, quietly. "My arrogance, and my— and my sexuality. She called me filthy, said that I might as well rut with a halla as to— to—" She lets out a small, broken whimper, taking another deep breath. "She said I would thank her for making me T-tranquil. She had the brand, I almost—"

"When I was coming in, I heard something about 'breaking her to rein,'" Bull adds.

Greagoir bows his head a moment. "That is... not clear cut, but it certainly far beyond the bounds of honor and duty," he says carefully. "I will speak with her. Plainly and bluntly." He inhales slowly. "In the meantime, I think it best that we all rejoin the others in the cafeteria."

"Yes," she whispers, taking another deep, shuddering breath. Then she rises, reaching for Bull's hand, clinging to it far tighter than she means to.

Bull pulls her back to him, arm wrapping around her protectively. "You head on back to you and yours. I'll see Bahith to the mess safely."

Marian presses her forehead to Bull's chest, just breathing, just waiting. "Very well," Greagoir says after a moment. "May the Maker keep you in His light." The words are typical, formulaic, but he sounds sincere in them. Not even as a warning or admonishment, but rather an actual blessing and prayer. With one last look and sigh at Clemence's body, he leaves the room.

Marian lets out a long breath, her body shivering as she releases her iron grip on herself. "This is my fault," she whispers, to Bull's chest. "I can't—"

"Hey, hey, hey— how is this your fault? You didn't cause any possessions or whatever. Fuck, you've saved at least a dozen people, some more than once, so far," he protests, rubbing her back slowly.

"I should have kept a better eye on him. I shouldn't have let him slip off."

"You were just a _little_ preoccupied that morning, what with the torture and shit," Bull reminds her. "If anyone is to be blamed on that angle, of should have been watching a grown man to prevent him from being a dumbass, it's us Chargers."

"He was my responsibility. I don't— I don't even know if he'd rather be buried or cremated, I don't know if he was religious, I don't know—" She shivers. "All I know is he creeped me out, and now he's dead."

"Skinner can prepare his body, get him ready for travel. I'm sure he had a will or something back home." _And if not, I'll have Pyro lie and take care of it._

Marian nods, a few times, struggling to find words. Finally, softly, she says, "Thank you. If I — If I survive this, any of this, it will be entirely thanks to you."

The qunari scoffs lightly. "Says the lady that helped Daisy wrestle the fucking Veil back in place before it ate us all."

"...Dais— Merrill did most of it. I just... helped." Still, she blushes faintly, sounding more tired than upset. "Come on, we should get going."

"Even Morrigan gave you credit for that save— claimed some for herself, rightly so, given you'd not have had the chance to be a big damn hero without her holding it until you got there— so take the win you earned, Bahith." Smiling down at her, he presses a kiss to her forehead. "But you're right about getting back. You should eat more, too damn skinny."

Marian makes a face. "My BMI was pretty awful last check-up, so this is probably good for me," she admits, heading for the door. She stops in the doorway as a blast of cold air hits; the air is full of snow, whipping about in the fierce winds, and in the distance, a roll of thunder can be heard.

"Damned humans and their preoccupation with being elves," Bull mutters, then curses in Arabic when the door opens. "Blizzard my ass, that's thunder! I didn't think you could have lightning and snow!"

"You can," she says, wincing. _If my twin and I are both casting, anyway. Damn idiot brother of mine..._ "Right. It's only, what, thirty meters to the mess hall from here? I can sprint."

Bull squints out the door for a moment, then clicks his tongue. "Better idea. Yesterday I fought dragons— sorta— so only fair that today I get to carry off a princess. Sorta." Without any warning, he lifts Marian into a bridal carry and steps outside.

"A what?" asks Marian, startled. "I'm not a princess!" She doesn't struggle to get down, however; it's a relief to be off her feet, loathe as she is to admit it.

"Eh, you're the daughter of the Amells, that's basically Kirkwall royalty," Bull says dismissively. _This wind is ridiculous, even I'm feeling it_. "Hell, 'princess' was one of the nicknames I was considering for you."

"No, that's my sister," she says, dimly aware that won't make much sense to the mercenary. _Damn but it's cold out here..._

"Yeah? Maybe you can share a few stories. We'll set a fire— I'm sure Pyro and Rocky can work out something safe— drink hot tea and cocoa, tell stories and sing. That's how that works, right?" Bull rambles on about his mostly TV based plans for how to weather a blizzard as he muscles them to the cafe. Thankfully Krem is keeping watch and gets the door for him. "Headcount?"

"Five mages accounted for— six now, sir. Dr Janar, Dr Sabrae, Dr Korcari, and the two remaining students. Dalish is guarding the back door, I'm on the front, Grim and Skinner are inside, Stitches and Rocky are looking for Dennet— Adan, Wu, and Blackwall are with the Templar holed up in the barracks, but we're not sure where Dennet is."

As Bull and Krem figure out the logistics, Marian slips into the mess hall, looking around. They've collected blankets from the barracks, and someone's rigged up both coffee makers with decaf so the mages can keep warm without being too buzzed; she spies Merrill, wrapped in a quilt in the corner, and heads for her, sitting down next to her with a tired smile.

"Hey," she says quietly.

The elf is bundled up not just in the quilt but a sleeping bag as well, half asleep as she sips at something in a mug. A few yards away, Pyro is rambling a mile a minute to Morrigan as the pair look at some readouts. Just close enough to keep an eye on the still weak elf, but far enough away that talking with low voices won't bother her if she tries to sleep. Her head lifts at Marian's greeting and she smiles, the expression entirely unguarded and warm. "Aneth ara, falon," she says sleepily.

"Sure," she replies, leaning her head against Merrill. "Can I stay here a while? I'm not— I'm not okay."

Merrill blinks slowly, her eyes refocusing. "Oh. Sorry. English. Yes, of course." She wiggles a bit, then moves her mug to one hand so she can lift the edge of her quilt. "Share?"

Marian crawls into the quilt, resting her head in Merrill's lap as she curls into a little ball. "...Do you think we're going to make it out of here?" she asks quietly.

"Yes," Merrill says firmly, using her free hand to gently comb through Marian's hair.

"I'm not so sure." She takes a deep breath, lets it out. "Clem's dead."

"Oh." Merrill swallows hard, smile wavering, but her fingers never cease their gentle administrations. "Falon'Din enasal enaste. May his Maker take him home." She swallows again, then asks, "how?"

"Killed himself," she whispers. "I— I envy him, a little. Is that bad?"

"Dunno. Thought about it before," Merrill admits, perhaps more honest than she would be were she not so exhausted. "At least it's over for him. The worst has come."

"Yeah," she whispers. "All this waiting to die is... it's bad. Intolerable."

"I like dreaming more," Merrill offers. "Silly things. Like a warm bath. Fresh, crispy apples. Or laying naked in the grass, watching clouds. Maybe a book."

"...A nap would be nice," says Marian, slowly. "Maybe it will help. I'm pretty—" She doesn't finish her thought; there's a loud boom, as lightning strikes somewhere nearby, and she nearly jumps out of her skin as she sits bolt upright. "What—?"

Merrill growls softly, clearly displeased at the noise and activity. "No, _sleep_ ," she insists petulantly.

"That sounded pretty damn close by," Dagna remarks from nearby where she's fighting her way through the mission write-up. "Like 'maybe in the base' close." True to form, however, she doesn't seem particularly motivated to leave her science, even old science, to go look.

Blackwall pushes his way into the cafeteria, beckoning Bull over near the door where he's entered. He speaks calmly, but just loudly enough to be overhead: "—fire in the main building. Need a few of your men to help put it out, see if we can rescue the supplies."

Marian scowls. _Damn. Fire. They'll need— Maybe I can get some lyrium, summon some water—_

She gets to her feet, and immediately regrets it; her vision narrows, blackness dancing around the edges. She takes a single stubborn step and stumbles, dropping to one knee, pitching over sideways back into Merrill's lap.

Merrill lets out of soft 'oof' as the heavier human woman lands in her lap, then glares down at her. "You still only have grounds of magic in you," she scolds Marian. Lowering her voice, she continues, "you dipped into your blood, your, umm, health. Not a lot, but a little. You need rest."

Shouting for the Chargers, Krem and Bull quickly huddle up as they work out a new plan. Marian wants to protest. She wants to get up and help. But— her whole body feels cold, distant, heavy. She shivers uncontrollably now, barely aware of it, struggling against her rioting stomach. _I have to... I have to rest[_ , she reluctantly agrees, closing her eyes.

Wriggling a little, Merrill manages to lay down, shifting Marian's head to her chest. "We'll both rest now. Maybe we can help clean up afterwards," she slurs, falling asleep herself.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Having returned from their expedition to find Clem, who wasn't in the bubble after all but back where they started, Krem and the Chargers set about trying to create another bulwark for the mages to hide behind. If they can only keep the mages cooperative...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: discussion of sexual assault

Krem never was fond of the cold. Many little boys in northern Tevinter grow up longing for snow, for cool weather and autumn leaves and snow days and snowmen, but not Krem. He loves the heat, loves how brown his skin gets, loves parading around with very little on— if it's safe to show his scars, anyway.

The sky rumbles with thunder, and there's already more snow than Krem ever cared to see on the ground.

The last time the Chargers had been in Russia had been like this, though admittedly with less lightning. The blizzard had caught them unawares, and Skinner nearly got frostbite before they managed to hole up in a fishing cabin they liberated from a squad of what _had_ to be demonically possessed raccoons. Today, they were prepared, having hustled double-time away from the bubble to make it back to camp in time.

_Heating will be easier if they're in one place. Guarding, too. Let the Templar sort out their own. We'll put our charges... the stable's more defensible, but less warm, so the mess it is._ "Alright, everyone to the mess hall," he calls, seeing Bull and Hawke go off to the brig. "Dalish, Rocky, get blankets from the supplies. Skinner, I want you and Grim making food and hot beverages— just heat up whatever's fast. Get Adan to help. Stitches, check over the wounded." Wounded isn't right, exactly; 'recovering' is better, but it feels less natural on the tongue, less easy. "Hup to, everyone, this way."

Skinner shoots Krem a dirty look at the orders, but hops to with haste. Which is pretty much just Skinner being Skinner, as she nearly always does that, even to Bull. Merrill plods alongside Rocky, head bowed and feet nearly dragging on the ground as she struggles to keep pushing onwards. Stitches has to take her by the arm to get her to follow them into the mess instead of continuing on autopilot after Rocky.

"I want to go to my room," Veness protests, giving the elf a worried look. There's always one...

"What do you need?" Krem asks. _Always better to work with the target than butt heads against them. If need be, I'll walk her to it to grab something, but I'd rather send a runner than risk running into Templar hot to trot._

"To be in my room," Veness says sharply, the confidence of a moderately privilged young human surfacing.

Krem takes a deep breath, lets it out. "There's a blizzard coming. We're going to conserve heat and safety by keeping everyone together. If you want to be in your room it's a toss-up whether you'll freeze or the Templar will take you away. Best to stay here."

"I'm a good Andrastian mage, I have nothing to fear from the Templar," Veness says, looking offended.

"Humor me on that point," says Krem, dryly. "We've been hired to provide security, and we're providing it."

"And a fine job you've done so far," Veness snaps at Krem. A few steps from the mess door, Skinner stiffens, then turns around with murder in her eyes.

"I understand you're upset about your friend, but given we've saved at least two lives so far," begins Krem, not seeing Skinner behind him.

Thankfully, Grim does notice and is willing to risk his blood for duty. He grabs Skinner by her elbow, grunting a loud noise of disagreement. "And not saved more than twice that!" Vaness flares back.

"We're not responsible for the Templar," says Krem patiently. "But you're right, we should have protected Dr Korcari. We didn't realize the danger, and now we do."

"What's this all about?" Dagna asks, finally having noticed that the pair have stopped to argue over something.

"I want to go to my room, away— With my things. To be alone," Veness insists, her arms folded and her face set mulishly.

"We're keeping everyone together for safety, ma'am," says Krem, not letting his annoyance show. _Wait them out. Be patient, understanding, and immobile. Which works better if you're seven feet tall. But still._

"Well, you can't," Dagna says cheerfully. "So let's get moving, it's colder than my girl's feet out here."

"What? You can't—"

"I'm your boss," Dagna cuts Veness off. "So, yeah, can. Actually."

Veness huffs loudly. "No you're not, we're in different departments. And who the fuck cares about that now anyway?"

"Your boss is dead, so unless you want me to fetch the younger Dr Korcari, you might want to listen to Dagna for now. Chain of command's important in a crisis."

"Because _you_ failed to—"

"Seriously, shut it Vanny," Danga says sharply. "I get it; this has been all sorts of fucked up. And yeah, what went down in the cavern was seriously terrifying and blood magic is scary as hell. But look at her," she commands, gesturing at Merrill, who is dozing on Stitches's shoulder as he guides her into the mess. " _That's_ what's tipped you over the edge?"

Grim finally manages to get Skinner moving again, the pair disappearing into the mess to start food going. After a moment of Veness just glaring at Dagna, the scientist rolls her eyes. "Look. Merrill is going to pass the fuck out as soon as she can sit. If she can so much as talk in full sentences in the next twelve hours, I'd be impressed. At least come to the mess to get something to eat."

"Good idea. If you still need to go to your room after we get everyone set up, we'll talk about it then."

Veness shifts her glare to Krem for a moment, then huffs before stomping off like a child. Dagna shakes her head. "You are _way_ more diplomatic than me," she informs Krem.

"Practice," he confirms, with a crooked, easy smile. "Alright, time for me to make the rounds, check on everyone."

"Ick. _Practice_ ," Dagna says with a grin. "Rather dump it— I mean delegate that sort of thing."

When Krem enters the mess, all seems to be going fairly well. What Grim and Skinner are heating up isn't going to be fine dining by any stretch but it'll be hot and filling. Merrill is indeed passed out under one of the tables, curled up around one of the remaining mabari. As he finishes looking around, Rocky trots over. "Looks like the tinheads already hit the supplies," he reports in a low murmur. "Blankets, thermal packs and both of the space heaters are gone or mostly gone. There's some blankets left but two shy of one for each of us."

Krem nods. "What about those warming runes they won't use? Did they leave them behind?"

"Just one box left; thought there were two and a third or so, but," he shrugs a little, "no joy. Not sure if some of the workers have them, they've been moved or what but yeah, one box. Already snagged it."

Krem nods. "Right. Prioritize Merrill and Marian, I'm worried about their reserves. Speaking of which, did you see which way Marian went?"

"She and the boss headed towards the main building block," Rocky says, shrugging. "Not sure where exactly."

Krem nods. "Right. We'll just have to trust the chief to keep her on her feet." _She could barely stand last I checked, but who asked me, right?_ "Thanks, Rocks."

"No worries, baby boss," Rocky replies with a sloppy salute. He hesitates, then glances around. "Permission to speak freely?"

"Just this once," Krem teases.

"Sir, why are we still fucking here?" Rocky asks intently. "People are dying and most of them from each other. We should load up the ship and get out of here."

Krem nods. "I agree. But the job's security, not calling the shots. I'll talk to the boss and that Blackwall fellow, maybe they can get the civvies to pull out, but otherwise it's not our call."

"Security," Rocky repeats. "As in, keeping them alive. By _leaving_."

"Not our call," Krem says again. "But like I said, I'll bring it up with the chief."

"Maybe it _should_ be our call," Rocky retorts, then sighs. "Sorry. Just— just really on edge. Fucking demons."

Krem nods. "Yeah. I hear ya. This has gone to shit real fast. But we'll pull through. We're Chargers, right?"

Rocky snorts, a bit of tension fading. "Please; I was a Charger when we were Ironhides, newbie." He glances over his shoulder at the others. "Best thing Gerry ever did for the group was taking that bullet to the throat. Bull's twice the Captain he was."

Krem's smile softens a little. "Bull's the best captain you could wish for."

Rocky looks amused. "You know, I'm still willing to split the pot with you if you'd just ask him out on a Sunday already," he mock-whispers.

Krem reddens. "It's not like that. It's just... he did a lot for me. That's all."

"Yeah, yeah, so you've said," Rocky teases him. "Relax Krem. We know it's not like that." _It's totally like that._ "You'd show at least _some_ jealousy when he finds a one-nighter if you did." _Unless Stitches is right and you're into that. I don't buy it but could be I guess._

Krem nods, smirking a little. "Besides, who could keep up with that fabled Qunari drive anyway? Certainly no mere human."

"Hey, I've been with a qunari," Rocky protests. "Well, I mean, Tel-Valsoth or whatever but still. Grey skin and horns. Tits as big as my head too."

"Sure— once. And I bet she was raring to go again the next day with someone else." Krem shrugs. "Not my style."

"Naw, they have rut," Rocky says, waving a hand. "Long weekend kind of thing. Felt like I'd just done a double helping of Bull's 'you done fucked it' exercise routines but damn was it worth it." He looks a bit wistful. "Shame they don't really do romance; she was a damn fine woman, in and out of bed. Even the Tel-V's keep it light and cool most of the time."

"You'll find someone," says Krem, nodding. "You're a good man. I'm sure you'll make someone a good husband someday."

"Woah now, 'husband' is a bit much, isn't it?" Rocky says, eyes widening. "A nice steady someone to meet up with between jobs sounds great but husband? That's for retirees and I still have a decade or two in me. Well, mebbe not two, merc life isn't gentle or anything but damn, cool it with the husband talk."

Krem laughs. "Plenty of husbands work away from the home, it's fine," he jokes. "Like an army wife."

"Gah, again with that word," Rocky grumbles, shaking his head. He glances over as he notices Dalish heading towards them both.

The elf nods politely but doesn't bother with pleasantries. "So the pipes are freezing."

_Of course they are._ "Right. Pipes in cold places often have warming runes built in, if we can figure out how to activate them."

"They do," Dalish confirms, high, breathy voice as brisk and professional as she can make it. "About a quarter less than they should. And a third of them are failing from lack of maintenance or shit construction. So far it's the sewer pipes that seem the worst, but the incoming will freeze sometime tonight." She makes a face. "Unless we use the portable warming runes to try and bolster the inbuilt ones. But that's going to be a pain in the ass and will only delay things." Because it's not like they can dig up the pipes to lay them out properly after all.

Krem nods. "Right. Okay. We'll start stockpiling water. Fill the tubs in the washrooms, fill any buckets you can find, any empty watertight containers— and consolidate what we can from the shipping."

"I'll get on that," Rocky volunteers before giving another playful salute and hurrying off.

Dalish frowns after him, distracted by the dwarf's behavior. "What's up with him? Since when does he _offer_ to do domestic tasks?"

Krem smirks. "He's practicing to get married," he jokes.

"I heard that!"

Dalish stares at Krem. "Umm. What?" she asks, voice tight. "The fuck?"

"I'm teasing him. He's got some thing about being married meaning he has to retire."

"Oh." Dalish clears her throat. "That, uh, that makes sense. I mean as a joke, obviously you don't have to retire if you get married, not if it's to the right sort of person."

"Something wrong, Dale? You sound off."

"What? No, of course not. I'm fine," she says quickly. "Why? What's wrong?"

"You sound like you're waiting for the next big disaster."

Her eyes dart over to where Rocky's getting out giant pots to fill with water. "Well, yeah, of course. Aren't we all? I mean, murderous Templar, crazed Tranquil, demons, instant super blizzards; just one thing after another around here."

"Have a little faith, Dalish. We'll see it through. Same as always. We're Chargers, right?"

"Of course," Dalish replies after clearing her throat. "No real fear of that."

"Besides," says Krem, giving Dalish a gentle punch to the shoulder. "I've seen Rocky admiring that ass a time or two. So it's nothing to worry about."

"That— who?" Dalish asks, eyes narrowing. "Veness? Or one of the Templar?"

"Yours, I meant." Krem smirks. "So no need to be worried, got me?"

The elf looks deeply conflicted and her mouth opens twice. "I— Sure. I mean, I'll get to work on the pipes."

"Good. You do that." Krem rubs the back of his neck as Dalish walks away, wondering where exactly he went wrong. _That would have worked for Chief..._

He heads for the kitchen next, deciding to check up on Grim and Skinner. He's greeted by a low snarl from Skinner, then a vicious spew of curses and oaths. Grim stands next to the elf, watching patiently as she tries to hack through a rock hard frozen hunk of some kind of reddish meat. Could be beef, might be venison or seal. Regardless, it's frozen solid and more than a match for the kitchen cleaver Skinner is using.

"Skins. Don't break the tools," calls out Krem as he enters. "What's wrong?"

Skinner growls, then slams the blade down on the table. "We're nearly out of canned beans." She turns to face Krem, the words almost spit from her mouth. "As in, we have two cans of them. Got enough dried for two days, tops, but they're _dried_ so fuck useless for the next twelve hours. So no protein for Bull or the mages needing to recover. And all the _wolf-fucking, phlegm licking, cross-eyed Blighted meat is frozen_!" Without any change in expression, Grim picks up the meat and places it in a pot of boiling water.

"So heat it up. Like Grim's doing." Krem cracks his neck, twisting his head a bit. "No biggie."

"What?" Skinner spins back around, mouth gaping a bit as Grim shrugs and points at the pot. "That's— Why didn't— you can fucking boil meat?" She throws her hands up. "Fucking meat-eaters. Fine, whatever. I'm going to cut up more potatoes. Mashed potatoes, oatmeal and boiled mystery meat. Sure. Fine. Whatever." She shakes her head, then hesitates a single step towards the far counter. "How's Merrill doing?"

"That's my next stop," promises Krem. "Last I saw, she's bundled up in blankets against a mabari with Stitches looking over her. So I'm guessing she's improving."

Skinner gives a jerky nod, then hurries off to continue making food. Grim offers Krem a nod and a very faint twitch of the lips that serves as the blond's smile.

Krem smiles back. "You holding up okay there, big guy?"

Grim gives the question a moment's thought, then nods twice. He gestures towards the window, where snows batters against the glass panes, and sighs.

"Yeah, the snow's a bitch," agrees Krem. "I vote next job we take is somewhere tropical."

Grim grunts, then gives a firm nod to show his solid approval of the idea. He gestures at a plate of crackers and cookies, silently asking him to take the tray out when he goes.

Krem nods. "Sure thing. I'll get it circulating." So saying, Krem pushes off the doorway, moving to grab the tray. "Anything else goes wrong, feel free to come get me. Don't let Skins push you around, you hear?"

"Fuck a beehive," Skinner calls after him, tone almost cheerful as she rapidly dices potatoes so they cook faster. In the main room of the mess, Merrill is snoring lightly as she cuddles the mabari, not bothered in the slightest by Stitches taking her blood pressure.

Krem laughs as he passes the tray to Morrigan, asking her to pass it around the room to folks, making sure everyone gets some. Then he heads for Stitches and his patient, nodding as he approaches.

"How goes it?"

"Exhaustion basically." He glances around a little, then lowers his voice. "I'd swear she's anemic but her blood is a good color. Not the best measure, but I don't exactly have a lab to do bloodwork. I tried to talk to her, ask her what she knows, but she just mumbled something about sleep, bunnies, a slew of things in something that sounds like elven but wasn't and then she passed out."

Krem nods slowly. "She's a blood mage— could she have done something to her blood?"

He lifts his hands, a helpless look on his face. "I suspect so. I don't have any other ideas, aside from some kind of rare blood disease or toxin that just so happens to be hitting her right now."

"What would you be doing differently if she's anemic?" asks Krem.

Stitches gestures at his medkit. "With what I have on hand? Nutrient shot, for the iron in it. Push whatever iron-rich food we can scrounge up onto her. Maybe try for a blood transfusion, if it was real bad. Dalish is a universal donor, thankfully." Human blood can be given to an elf and vice versa, but it increases the odds of complications a fair bit. Shiren are almost perfectly compatible with humans, though mages sometimes have issues with it, but elves almost always have a bad reaction. Strangely, the reverse is not true, as shiren can take elven blood in most cases.

"Will it hurt her to try that if she's not anemic?"

"The blood transfusions, possibly, yes. Nutri-shot I feel pretty safe doing. Can't make her eat until she wakes, and I can ask her more at that point."

Krem nods. "Go ahead and offer her the nutri-shot. It's safe and it'll help get her back on her feet. We might need her, there's problems with the plumbing."

"She's out cold," Stitches points out. "Like, out out. She didn't so much as open her eyes when I checked her blood pressure or drew some blood. I'd almost swear she was drugged if I hadn't been right here with her the whole time."

"Yeah, give her the shot. I'm worried." Krem flashes a frown at Merrill, though he hides it quickly enough. "If we have to relocate..."

Stitches nods, reaching for his kit. "When Marian gets back, send her my way if I don't see her first. She's the only other person that might have some answers before Merrill wakes up."

"Can do." Krem glances around, frowning as he does. "Heads up. Sister on your six, headed this way."

"The fuck is she doing here? And alone," Stitches mutters, speeding up his ministrations just in case.

"You've sedated the mage I see," Sister Petrice says, eyes glinting with zeal. "Good. Very good. Where is the other one?"

"We haven't sedated her, she's injured," says Krem, and his voice is colder now, less open to the Sister's machinations.

"Injured? How? And where is the other?"

"She'll be here soon, and I'm afraid that's classified, so you'll have to take it up with the boss."

"I speak with the authority of the one and true 'boss' and you will answer my questions _now_."

"Sorry ma'am," he says coldly. "I don't answer to your boss anymore."

Stitches darts a glance at Krem, trying not to react to Krem's announcement of paganism. _Or is it heathanism? I can never remember which is which._ He lowers his gaze again quickly, not wanting to get caught up in this.

Petrice's eyes widen and her hands tense into claws, as if she's fighting the urge to take a swipe at Krem. "You dare!"

Krem stands, slowly, his body that particular mix of loose and tense that soldiers learn to be very, very good at. "I dare."

"You damn yourself, infidel," she hisses at him.

_Ah! That's the word,_ Stitches thinks inanely.

Krem smirks a little, recalling a book he read once. "Alright, then, I'll go to hell," he declares. _For the mages here, for Marian, for the way Bull looks at her when he calls her 'Bahith', I'll go to hell._

"As you wish." Petrice takes a step back, hand heading towards her waist. Before she can move that far, Rocky lets out a loud whistle. As eyes dart in his direction, he grins and pulls back the slide of his machine gun rather dramatically. The Sister glares at him, her eyes nearly blazing with righteous fury, but she merely spins on her heel and stalks towards the door.

Krem lets out a long, slow breath, then turns back to Stitches once the enemy combatant— once the _Sister_ — is gone. "Alright?" he asks.

"Not really," he replies honestly. "I might be ex-communicated when we get back, so not really." Despite the taunt, almost shrill tone of his voice, his hands are gentle and sure as he tends to Merrill.

"What, just for knowing me? Nah. I'll tell 'em you never once let me alone about worship and they'll let it go."

"For being a part of all this," Stitches says, hands still steady. "For— Well, for tearing up the letter, same as you and Huckleberry."

Krem waits until his hands aren't on Merrill to clap Stitches on the shoulder. "Good man." That's all he has time for before Bull enters, carrying Marian. "Gotta go."

_We're all going to end up burning at stake,_ Stitches thinks fatalistically. _Oh well. We all die some way or another._

* * *

"Sister Petrice, we need to talk."

The priestess doesn't seem to notice Greagoir's words for a few seconds, her gaze locked on something on the other side of the barrack's window. She finally blinks, head turning to face him, but doesn't reply. The Templar Captain hesitates himself, put off by the strange, almost threatening vibe she's giving off. "We need to talk," he repeats, tone sharper than he'd meant it to be.

"Then talk," she says coolly, eyes flat and unreadable.

_She acts as if caught in a dream, or perhaps as one in shock or mourning._ "I find myself growing more and more concerned with some of the behavior of several members of this expedition. The bounds of duty and righteousness are vast, yes, but there is a line and it must not be crossed. Not just for the wellbeing of others, but for the souls of those who reach past the Maker's edicts to impose their own wishes and whims as law."

Petrice continues to stare at him with emotionless eyes, one finger tapping lightly on the cover of the Bible she's holding in one hand. "I did what had to be done. No, that's not true," she corrects herself. "I _attempted_ to do what has to be done but was stopped. I will not be stopped again."

Greagoir pales, skin crawling in revulsion to the utter disconnect of her expressionless face and the savage zeal in her voice. "Sister Petrice, I am ordering you not to attempt to—"

The building shakes, the sky lights up and there's an echoing roar of explosions from somewhere far, far too close. The pair stagger, shouts ringing out from the rest of the barracks, and the smell of ozone and chemical fire reaches them. The trouble with Petrice pushed aside, Greagoir bolts out of the room to find out what the fuck just happened.

* * *

_I think I would rather fight a rage demon. At least my armour and talents could help against that foe._ Greagoir hisses softly, hand throbbing with pain as he snatches it back from crate he'd tried to pick up. Not that anyone can hear it, even himself, not over the roar of the inferno quickly building up even more. Lightning had struck the camp, lured in by an bit of sheet metal exposed by the powerful blizzard winds tearing off the thermal siding over the utility building. The surge had arced through the walls, into the main generator, with predictable results. The generator, the main water pumps, the water heater, the main capacitor bank and even the computer systems were all gone. In their place is fire. Savage, chemically enhanced flame, given extra vigor due to the fuel supplies in the power room and the methane in the sewage tanks. With the water pumps also gone— and a good half of the pipes frozen anyway— there's not a lot they can do to actually fight the flames.

Instead, they're trying to salvage as much of the supplies as they can before the entire building is lost. The only real saving grace is that the massive blizzard is preventing the fire from spreading to the other buildings. "Hook!" Greagoir shouts, twisting in place to catch the boating hook tossed his way. _That Grim fellow might be mute, but he's got a working brain in there. Using the hooks to pull the too hot crates outside was genius. Might just be the thing that tips us over into being able to save enough to survive._

At Jerann's shout, Greagoir passes the hook on. He kicks some snow on the crate, then grabs it now that's it out of the fire and cooled enough to be manageable. "Need more help over here!" the Charger dwarf shouts, a hint of panic in his voice. "Fire's getting close to the scanning tech!" _The scanning tech? Why is he worried about that of all things? We should focus on the food and survival gear above all us right now._ The human puts the question to the side, focusing on the problems in front of him. He can only spare a few seconds to look around, to see the Templar and many of the Chargers working alongside each other, Blackwall and Dennett trying to get the animals to safety. _It's almost encouraging, seeing us work together like this. It is a shame, near a sin, on all of us that it takes such a direct and uncaring threat to draw forth this unity. But it proves we can work together, can find common purpose, if only we try._

It's just as he's having that moment of optimism that the scanning tech is reached by the flames. More importantly, the magnesium-based film is reached by the flame. With a flash almost as bright as the lightning, there's a sharp popping noise that's far too trivial, almost silly, for the shockwave that follows it. Seeing Saddatt topple backwards into the snow and the Charger's medic rushing to help him, Greagoir abandons the crates he'd been working on to support the only other person now working that side of the build. Blood streaming from his cheek and shoulder, Rocky doesn't waste time with gratitude or relief. "That blast fucked the supports! The roof is gonna give, two minutes tops!"

Greagoir opens his mouth to call out a retreat, the danger to his men (and in that moment, he's including the Chargers in that category) too great for the benefit of another crate or two. But Rocky continues first. "Dalish is inside, trying to get Adan's heart medicine!"

_Two lives. Well, that changes things, doesn't it?_ With a nod, Greagoir closes his eyes and prays. Far from a useless action, the Templar glows softly as a protective aura settles over him. Not as effective as it would be against magical or demonic fire, it will still serve to offer some measure of safety. "Hold the area!" Rocky redoubles his efforts, flinging small vials of flame-retarding chemicals at the fire to augment the standard garden hose he's attempting to hold back an inferno with but can't spare the breath to give any assurances. Not that he'd be able to give them with any sincerity; the sapper knows fires, knows architecture, and knows that this is a lost cause thrice over.

Still, when Greagior staggers out of the fire with Dalish slung over one shoulder, the elf clutching a black plastic case, badly warped by the heat, the way is still clear enough for that to be _possible_. Rocky sags a little with relief and begins to back up. "Medic, barracks," he grunts as the Templar passes him. Head spinning thanks to smoke inhalation and heat exhaustion that's hovering just under outright heat stroke, Greagoir forces himself to keep going just a little longer, just long enough to get them completely out of danger. The greatest danger has past; they've gotten everyone out, they've gotten what supplies there are to be had, they've prevented the fire from spreading to the other buildings. All he needs to do is get back to the barracks and he can rest and that's really all he can focus on in his condition.

He doesn't see Stitches laying in the snow, half covered already.

He doesn't notice way the snow underneath the healer is red.

He doesn't hear the grunt of pain from Rocky as he's struck from behind.

He doesn't feel Grim taking Dalish from him or Blackwall reaching out to drag him the last few yards.

Just a growing numbness, then the dark.

* * *

The first thing Greagoir is aware of when he wakes is motion. It's not right, the movements; he's lying flat, but the world is spinning. Or not spinning, not exactly. It's more shifting, unpredictable, not enough to toss him about but enough to be noticeable. Inner ear damage? An earthquake? A sledge?

He cracks his eyes open to reveal an unfamiliar room. Or no; he's seen the room before, but not in some time. A small room, with a bunk and a desk; Thomas Blackwall, the ex-Warden guide, is sitting in the chair at the desk, watching him sleep.

"You're awake," he says, his voice gruff. "Do you remember your name? What today's date is?"

"Knight-Captain Brian Greagoir, ident 41284KW," the templar says, the words coming even before he entirely understands the question. "Where— my men?"

"All your men made it to the boat— all the survivors, that is. Plus Veness Briggs, Eli Adan, John Dennet, and Korbin Wu." Blackwall scowls, letting the omissions hang heavy in the air between them.

"Boat?" Greagoir manages to ask, head pounding. "Fire. There was— a fire."

"You didn't order the retreat?" asks Blackwall, still frowning. "They herded everyone onto the ship; I was asked to treat your injuries while we got underway. We're headed for Tevinter now."

"Tevinter!" Greagoir's eyes bulge for a moment, then he groans in pain. "What— report. Start at the— beginning."

"If you didn't order the retreat, your counterpart Sister must have," says Blackwall, slowly. "We lost the majority of the supplies, and it was deemed too risky to remain. I urged your men to wait for the others to board, but they set sail anyway, citing orders from the top."

"I don't..." Greagoir reaches up to press a hand against his temple. "I was... in the mess? No, the main storage. There was a fire. The storm. Then..."

"You were injured. You may have a mild concussion," says Blackwall, moving toward the bed to squat beside it. "Let me see your pupils." _They're not getting any more dead while I wait._

The Templar stoically allows Blackwall to tend him, which confirms that he does in fact have a mild, almost moderate concussion. Along with some first degree burns, smoke inhalation and a pair of cracked ribs. "I think... I think I recall something falling. Someone shouted but I couldn't move. Did I— the base, was it—"

"The blaze was still uncontrolled when we left. We were unable to do more than keep it from the other buildings." Blackwall's voice is grim, firm. "What food and blankets we were able to rescue, we brought with us on the ship. The others will starve or freeze without us."

"Others," Greagoir says slowly, eyes squeezing shut. "You said... earlier. They did not die in the fire?"

"I was told the two Chargers did. Those huddled in the cafeteria remained behind, with no power, no satellite uplink, no food."

Greagoir slowly opens his eyes, staring at Blackwall blankly. "But... why did we— did they attack? Rebel?"

"I don't know. You will have to ask Sister Petrice."

"Summon her now," Greagoir orders, then winces. "Please."

"Wait here."

Blackwall isn't gone long; the Sister's quarters should be just across the hall from Greagoir's, if he recalls correctly from the trip south. When he returns, he returns alone, his face a riot of emotions.

"She's not here."

"That does not— find Knight-Corporal Jerann." _What is going on here? What has happened? None of this makes sense. This entire mission does not make sense!_

"That's who I spoke to when I found her room empty. She boarded the ship; she gave the order to weigh anchor; no-one has seen her since. He refuses to turn back. Says the Sister told him the blood mage had gone rogue, that we had to evacuate for our own safety."

"She said— who was attacked? How? When?"

"I don't know. I'm working with third-hand information," snaps Blackwall. "What's the play here? You're not fit for duty, I know that much, but your men won't listen to me."

"I need— I need painkillers. And lyrium. Then I will— do we have communications?"

"Yes. The boat's satellite uplink is intact."

"Good, good. Medications, then I will contact Kirkwall." _We need reinforcements. This has all gone to the Black City._

A few moments later— well before the painkillers kick in, though his lyrium ration helps ease some of the burden, pushing back the empty, cold feeling at least— the Knight-Captain finds himself on hold, waiting for the transfer to the Knight-Commander's office.

To his surprise, the voice on the other end isn't Knight-Commander Stannard. "This is Acting Knight-Commander Otto Alrik. To whom am I speaking?"

_Otto? Where is Meredith?_ "Knight-Captain Brian Greagoir, ident 41284KW, acting on mission code Blackfeather," he replies crisply. "We require assistance."

"Identity confirmed," he replies. "What assistance do you require? You're a long way from home, Knight-Captain."

"Mission Blackfeather has failed," Greagoir admits heavily. "We have suffered numerous causalities. Knight-Corporal Keran and Knight-Corporal Drass were killed by demons. Sister Petrice is missing. Several civilians also died and the base camp was damaged, maybe destroyed, by a massive thunderstorm slash blizzard."

There's a moment of silence as that list is digested; finally, Alrik speaks again. "What happened? Demons, you say?"

"The magical phenomena we were investigating was a... weak spot, I suppose, in the Veil. Knight-Corporal Drass succumbed to a demon and became an abomination before death. Knight-Corporal Keran was attacked and slain by a rage demon, which was later killed itself. The rest... I am unsure. There may have been a killer among the civilians— we were holding the Tranquil for questioning with firm evidence of one murder but he suicided before we could get any answers."

"Am I to assume you did your duty and Annulled the errant mages, then? If there were demons involved?"

Greagoir frowns. "The demons were not summoned, they were able to pass through the Veil on their own," he tries to explain. "We had no evidence of any of the mages committing a sinful act."

"Are you bringing the mages back to Kirkwall?"

"Just one, a UP mage of good standing. Circle trained. The rest were... left behind, on the order of Sister Petrice." Greagoir's frown deepens. "Who has gone missing since we departed. Forgive me, sir, I sustained injuries during the storm— lightning struck one of the store rooms and caused a fire."

"One— Miss Amell, I assume?" Alrik cuts in, clearly not having listened to the bulk of his prior statement. "Sister Patrice has orders, but you say she was taken? You shall have to carry out the Rite, then, before you return to Kirkwall waters and the City Guard have to be involved."

"I— what? No, the remaining mage is Veness Briggs, from Oxford University. Ah, from the New England Circle. Maine campus, I believe." _Why is he so focused on the Amell girl?_

"Then what happened to Miss Amell? The Knight-Commander left orders with Sister Patrice to keep a very close eye on her, and to make her Tranquil should anything happen."

_She had what?_ "Why wasn't I informed of this?" he snaps, the headache simmering behind his eyes building up even faster.

"You have shown... reluctance to use the Rite, one of our most powerful tools, in the past. It was felt that you were less likely to show proper judgement in carrying it out. We did not believe you would allow any harm to come to Sister Patrice, and so, you did not need to receive duplicate orders."

_Well that worked out just fucking fine, didn't it?_ "I see," Greagoir says between clenched teeth. "Well, Sister Petrice seemed instead that it would be... acceptable to attempt to Tranquil Miss Amell without cause, save for her own carnal desire."

"I am certain she had cause," he says, dismissively. "You say you left her behind?"

"No, I am saying that, according to Knight-Corporal Jerann, Sister Petrice ordered the Templar to board the ship with the support staff, plus our guide expert, some mundane civilians and Briggs and then leave. Shortly after disembarking, it was discovered— while I was still unconscious— that Sister Petrice was now missing, with no signs of a struggle." _Like as not, the crazy bitch went back to find Miss Amell._

"So both Amell and Patrice are now... what? Stranded?"

"Presuming they survived the fire, the blizzard and the aftermath? Yes, along with the other mages and the security detail."

"What would you estimate the odds of survival being?"

"I... Short-term? A coin flip. Based on the damage Knight-Corporal Jerann reported to the base as they were fleeing their duty, the base is only moderately inhabitable. The fire broke out in the main storage room, and spread to the generator. They have, at best, enough supplies for perhaps three days. Less than a full day of heat. So long-tern... unless they get help, they'll all be dead in a week or two, depending on how ruthless the survivors are."

A long pause. "Alright. I'm filing your incident report. The blood mage killed Sister Patrice, and you had to Annul the whole expedition. I'll have the proper authorization backdated."

_"What?"_

"Are you questioning my orders, Knight-Captain?"

"Yes sir, _I am_ ," Greagoir barks. "I serve the Maker and His edicts foremost, not you. Magic is to serve man, not be burned out by him."

"Fine. You are relieved of command. Hand over the phone to Knight-Corporal Jerann."

"On what grounds, _sir?" Say it. Say it, heretic._

"Insubordination."

"It is not insubordination to refuse an illegal and _sinful_ order, Alrik." Greagoir rises to his feet, swaying slightly. "I am a Knight-Captain in the Maker's Army and I will not follow hersey even if it wears a uniform."

"What is _sinful_ is allowing mages to run rampant and uncontrolled, abandoning a woman of the cloth, and having undue sympathies to mages— given the precarious situation you have placed me in, I must act to protect the Order so that we may continue to carry out the Maker's will!"

"They were not rampant! And Petrice was no sister, but instead a sexual predator unworthy of her habit. I have served as Andraste demands, and—"

"Enough! Sister Patrice was an honorable woman— whatever lies the mages have been telling you have clearly gone to your head! You have utterly failed this mission, the City of Kirkwall, and the Maker— if He sees fit to ensure you do not return at all, I will not question His wisdom!"

Knight-Corporal Jerann stumbles as he storms into the comms room, clearly having been listening in on the call from outside; Blackwall slips around the corner after him, pretending he didn't just trip the man.

"You dare?" Greagoir breathes, eyes wide, his head pounding. He reaches out to steady himself on the way, then, too late, realizes what that noise behind him must have been.

"You are in no position to make demands, Greagoir! Not after the failure you—"

He doesn't hear the next bit as Jerann snatches the phone from him; Blackwall tugs him back, hoping to usher him out of the room quickly. "Poorly done," he says, but he doesn't sound disapproving. "Let's get you back to bed. You shouldn't be on your feet."

"Mutiny," Greagoir says sluggishly, the effort of getting a report, then giving one, his temper, all combining with his injuries. "Need to get... report to the Chantry."

"You can mutiny later." _When you can stand for more than ten minutes._ "For now, rest. I'll guard the door."

"No, me," Greagoir tries to correct him. _I think? Does it count if I'm the right? I mean, if I'm right? Rest. Rest is a good idea._ Eyes closing despite himself, the Templar obeys Blackwall's suggestion.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The blizzard is winding down, but the Templar are gone, and with them, most of the supplies necessary for life in the harsh Antarctic cold. Can Marian and the others scrounge up enough to keep going, or is this certain death for the mages and the Chargers?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Character death

Marian drifts between sleep and wakefulness; it's hard to tell the difference, when sleep is full of tumultuous dreams and waking is full of pain, cold, sweat, and nausea. Each time, she finds Merrill close at hand, curled up around her; twice, she finds Morrigan dabbing at her forehead with a damp cloth, and once, she lets Dagna talk her into drinking some warm water, not lucid enough to question why.

When she finally wakes, feeling hung over but no longer like death, she notices the little details: the multiple layers of quilt, the ability to see her breath in the air, the lack of electric lights indoors, the gentle snowfall out the windows. "...time?" she groans.

"Four in the afternoon," replies Morrigan. "Are you awake, then?"

"...working on it," she groans.

"Hey, you're not dead or whatever!" Dagna pops into Marian's field of vision, upside-down. "Good, we're utterly fucked and could use a bit of your magic. Not your magic magic. Your orderlyness."

Marian winces. "Status report?"

"Well. The blizzard seems to be winding down, finally," Dagna begins. "Merrill woke up twice during, ate a bunch, then passed right back out. Well, one trip to the toilet. Anyway. Fire is thankfully out, though it really cost us. The Templar are gone, fuckers, and—"

"Gone?" asks Marian, sharply.

"Yes," confirms Morrigan. "When the power went out, they loaded the salvaged supplies onto the jeeps and departed. The ship is gone."

"Okay, well, I have my phone, I'll just, I'll call for evacuation," Marian begins.

"Including the sat uplink. And the fire wiped out the generator, the comm station, the showers and all but the mess toilet— not that it matters, as the pipes froze an hour ago— the main storehouse and the roof of the barracks. So yeah. Fucked. We've been using the grills in the back to heat the mess but the propane tank is nearly out." Dagna rubs her head as she moves around to Marian's front. "Once again, fucked."

Marian takes a deep breath, lets it out slow. "Alright," she says slowly, as she sits up. _Still a little dizzy, but it'll pass_. "Scrounge up what we can. I called my uncle a few days ago, when the ship gets back without us he's sure to send help. But we'll need heat." _And food. But we can last a couple days; they'll get to Tevinter, and presumably fly back to Kirkwall without us. My parents will notice. So that's maybe four or five days minimum, plus however long it takes them to arrange help. So a week or so. We can last a week without food._ "The only heat is the bubble. So we'll go there. Camp out. It'll be fine. What about the Halla? Sledges? Dogs? Fluffy?"

"Fluffy?" Dagna asks blankly.

"Daisy's new pet. Hey Bahith, welcome back to the waking world. We have four halla, six mabari and the dino. But two of the mabari are hurt. Six sledges still working, no jeeps." He shrugs a little. "We have three days rations, five if we go right to short meals. Water is easy, obviously. Warmth less so. The bucketheads left all the warming runes, heathen things that they are, so we've that much, but other than those, we have our snow suits, one and a quarter blanket per person, six two-person tents and eight sleeping bags."

"For... how many of us?" asks Marian, noting the three blankets wrapped around herself and Merrill.

"Ten," Bull says, face going hard. "Rocky and Stitches were helping with the fire. They killed Rocky and gutted Stitches. He's stable but..." He shakes his head, hand tightening into a fist. "He's not going to be up for a while. So that's a sledge used. Maybe get some of the blankets on there with him as padding. Wilds says two halla and four mabari per sledge in this terrain. So that's three. No fucking clue if we can hitch up Fluffy— he wouldn't let Wilds do it, maybe Daisy can get him to go for it. Still means we'd only have four sledges to carry shit. I might be able to pull one, if we break more often, but that would leave me spent and tangled if a fight happens."

Marian takes a deep breath, lets it out. "Morrigan... do you have a beast of burden form?"

Morrigan scowls. "I can become a wolf. Or a bear."

"If you were tied to the sled as a bear, and you shrunk down to your normal form, would you slip out of the ropes?"

"Yes," she says, sounding even more displeased than before.

"Then, would you please help us carry the wounded? I hate to ask, I'm sure it's degrading, but..."

Morrigan's look softens a little, and she fingers the amulet she wears— not one Marian can recall seeing before, but then again, how often does she really look? "Of course. But only this once."

"So that's four, maybe five. Bring the tents and camping gear, any firewood we have left, any food you can scrounge up. Leave the rest. Survival gear only. And Merrill might need to hold Stitches in her lap as it is." _I can walk, if I have to._

"M'Merrill," comes a voice from the blanket nest. Then a hand pokes out, blindly reaching until it finds Marian's waist. "Pillow, come'ack."

Fighting a snicker, Dagna tosses off a salute. "I'll get that started, ma'am."

"Merrill, you need to get up now," Marian says, her voice sharp, almost maternally so. "We can't stay here much longer, it's already getting cold. We need to leave a note, so if my uncle sends men, they know where we went. And yes, half rations right away, except Merrill and Stitches. We can go a week without food if we have clean water, so we need to make what we do have stretch as long as possible so we can be rescued."

Bull winces. "You can maybe. In this weather, doing strenuous labor, I'm looking at ten thousand calories."

Merrill growls softly, but pokes her head out of the blankets. "Wa's going on?"

She winces. "Remember, we're headed into the tropics. You'll be out of the cold, we won't be emerging if we can help it. If you go out to hunt, you get dibs on what you kill. And you've eaten some today, right?"

"Fair enough. I need about five kay a day normally. Qunari run hot and fast. This cold shit isn't good for us. But if we get to the warm zone— and it's _still_ warm— that will help. A lot." He purses his lips. "I did eat before the fire. I'll grab a few packs of jerky to snack during the move. I think there's some lard, that could do for now and lunch." At her expression, he shrugs. "Calories are calories. I've had to eat worse."

"We're going back to the bubble?" the elf in her lap asks curiously, still waking up.

"Yes. I can do without if we need to, you can have my rations, Bull. Most of your Chargers are human, right? Do you know what elves need, calorically?"

"Uh." Bull stares at her for a moment, a dark look in his eyes before he exhales slowly. "Sorry. No, Stitches handles— he would be the one to ask normally. But..."

"About two-thirds human," Merrill supplies. "But we can't fast for as long. Less body fat. What's going on?"

Marian turns to Dagna, holding up a finger to get Merrill to hold off a second. "Dwarves?"

"I've been told I've gone ten days without food but I needed an IV afterwards?"

Marian nods, frowning as she does some math. "Okay. The elves on half rations. Dagna and myself on no rations. Grim and Krem too. Bull on full rations, and Stitches due to his injury. That should last us nearly a week and a half without any other food sources."

"Wilds will need at least half too, if she's pulling a sledge," Bull points out, trusting her math. "Krem, how do rations work?!"

"MREs, chief! Got ninety of them, three meals, ten people, so three days. Plus some random snacks and cooking supplies. Maybe another day's worth if we all had your stomach."

"Does that change your math any?" Bull asks, turing back to Marian.

She makes a face. "It's a few hours to the bubble. We can stop using Morrigan when we get there, because we can take multiple trips at that point if we need to move further in. It's gonna get real uncomfortable real fast, but I think we can hold out a while. We got dog food? Oats for the Halla?"

"Got five bags of feed— not sure what halla eat—"

"Dennet feds them wild grains, mostly barley with some oats and cracked corn. If you boil them long enough, people could eat it," Merrill offers, eyes wide and worried as she slowly figures out what's going on. "Each bag is sixty pounds so that's, umm, about four days per bag if they're pulling, six if they're able to rest. Each mabari needs a tin of dog food a day..."

"So two cases of dog food at—"

"One can a day."

"—and cases hold ten cans." Bull falters, doing the math.

Dagna chimes in then, offering, "so that's five days for the dogs, and one traveling and five rest days for the beasts of burden."

Marian takes a deep breath, lets it out. "Dagna, cover Merrill's ears?" she offers, then winces. "No, nevermind, it's just— I think we're going to have to eat the halla. Once we get to the bubble, when we get camp set up. Maybe the dogs too. Better than letting them starve to death."

Merrill winces but doesn't react as badly as Marian fears. "That's always an option, at least for you all," the elf admits softly. "I can't eat the mabari and won't eat the halla. Elves get sick eating carnivore flesh. But... but..." She tilts her head. "Why would we have to? I mean, if Fluffy can eat the grains, and he has been for days now, why wouldn't the halla be able to eat what he eats there? We might be able to as well."

Bull coughs into his hand, looking awkward. "I, uh, might have done some testing along those lines."

"I knew it! I knew you ate my damn sample you bastard!"

"Because all the plants are stasis-locked— they're not available to be eaten," says Marian, with a frown.

"What about the part that's unfrozen?" Merrill suggests. "Isn't that where we're going?"

"Is that part still warm?"

"We'll have to find out?" Dagna offers brightly.

Merrill bites her lip as she thinks that over. "If it's not, ummm, then, well, I could maybe unfreeze enough forage. If, umm, people are willing to donate."

Marian takes a deep breath, lets it out. "Okay. So we'll decide when we get there. But bring the dog food and the halla food. If we can hunt, we can feed that to the dogs, at least."

Merrill goes quiet, brow furrowing in thought, as Bull nods. "Worst to worst, each halla could feed me and the mabari for a day and change."

"Okay. And the humans will be fine until we get rescued or find more food. Morrigan excepted, for the first day at least." She hesitates, then says, "If it comes to it, I'd rather feed the grain to Merrill than the halla— she's still recovering, after all."

"Oh hey, I just remembered— I have like ten pounds of Tang in my room. That's vitamins at least, right?" Dagna rubs her head. "Annnnd like a pound... and a half... of chocolate covered coffee beans?" She shuffles away from Marian as she confesses this, looking guilty.

Marian makes a face. "That'll keep us from getting scurvy, at least," she points out. "So I'll let it slide, just this once. Alright, the sooner we get going the better. Let's pack up."

Sounding hesitant, Merrill offers a terrible idea. "Actually... It might take me a few days to figure out, but I might— I might also be able to freeze things. People. But only inside the bubble, by hooking them into the spell. Maybe. Definitely need to test it first." She darts a look at Marian. "And I might need help again."

Marian sucks in a sharp breath. "...Keep that in reserve. For now. But— one more thing— lyrium? Did they leave any behind?"

"I have my stash," Dagna says. "Fireproof, locked case, two months worth."

"Rocky had about that much too. Decent grade," Bull rumbles. "Plus we have two vials of medical mana potion, and one military grade."

Something hungry wakens in Marian's eyes; for a moment, Dagna doesn't like the way Marian's staring at her, almost like she's a battery, or a steak. Then it's gone, blinked away in an instant. "Right. Rocky's lyrium— I can dilute it some for Merrill and I. We're going to need that before we go— get me the tang and some clean water, I'll make something drinkable."

"I have some herbs in my things. Ginseng and, ummm, Sun's Blessing? I don't have the english, that's what we call it, translated. But it takes some of the poison-ness out of it. Are you going to grind the lyrium or temper it?"

"Temper. But it'll take time. I'll take the ginsing, too. And I'll have to use the burner, and some glassware..." She takes a deep breath, then slowly, carefully, gets to her feet. _Steady. I was worried I'd black out again. Good. (don't like that tremor in my legs though)._ "Right, let's get to it."

"Your hands are trembling. I can help you with the chemistry, just give me directions," Dagna says, eyes on Marian. "Better for me to handle the raw lyrium dust anyway." _Worried you'll just snort some, the way you're acting._

"Thanks," she admits. "I'll need a spoon, a glass or beaker, some water, a knife for the ginsing, the tang...."

On her instructions, the pair get to work, and if Marian doesn't strictly-speaking have to lick a few grains to test the purity, she's awfully good at bluffing. The potions are done shortly after the sledges are loaded, and Marian gulps hers warm, lapping up every drop she can manage. _Still feel a bit weak but at least my headache's gone, my body feels right again (never notice how it feels)._

Then it's off into the snow, Marian dutifully trudging along with the others, refusing to take a spot on a sledge that could be used to bring more food, more supplies.

Merrill was thankfully able to convince Fluffy to not just wear a harness, but to take the lead, so the massive half-ton beast breaks the crust of the snow and blazes a trail. She and Stitches share the first sledge, with four more pulled by halla, mabari, Bull, and Morrigan in bear form. The two wounded marabi are thankfully well enough to at least follow along, albeit with difficulty. But still, the general mood is high; they have a plan, they have immediate goals and they have decent supplies and no real enemies anymore. After all, so far the only dangers have been Templar and the demons in the bubble, which they have a fairly good workaround for, at least short term.

Still, the dinosaurs might have been hardier than assumed and thus still active despite the blizzard. Better safe than sorry, Krem and Marian figure, so they ordered the party armed and alert. Most of the Chargers have assault rifles— Bull has his axe and a custom oversized combat shotgun with incendiary rounds because 'fuck yeah I do'— plus hunting rifles for Dagna and Marian, so the party feels pretty safe. Which is why it's such a surprise when a swarm of cat-sized birds attack them. The first three go after Fluffy, who barely notices. The next one hits one of the wounded mabari, snapping its neck at the cost of its own life.

A heartbeat later, two more fall out of the sky, as electricity arcs between them; Marian's hair slicks with sweat, but she focuses, taking another deep breath as she aims once more. "Keep on. I'll scare them off."

A gunshot rings out a moment later, as Krem picks off another with his rifle. "Save your mana. We got this."

"Why are we being attacked by birds?" Merrill asks blankly, then flinches as gunfire starts popping off all around her.

Bull starts struggling out of his harness, cursing loudly, then gives up and yanks out his shotgun instead. "Fuck all birds!" he roars, his challenge echoed by the even louder roar of his shotgun.

Marian scans the skyline, then gestures. "There. That one. It's a— it's twice as big. Some kind of abomination-bird?"

"It's too high to tag," Skinner says with a scowl, shifting her rifle from sniping to spraying position. "Even the hunting rifles aren't specced for a moving target at a hundred plus yards. Ideas?"

"...I could probably make a flak cannon but it would take like half an hour," Dagna offers.

"Can you get me cover for a few minutes?" asks Marian, frowning up at the much-calmer blizzard's overhead clouds.

Grim grunts loudly and moves closer. With a scowl, Skinner does the same. "Hurry, shem," she spits, watching one of the halla scream and buck as a pair of maddened birds take advantage of the gap to savage her hindquarters.

Marian takes a deep breath, sinking down to kneel in the snow — _bad idea, cold, wet, too late_ — and focusing, pushing everything out of her mind but the mana — _don't notice how it feels!_ — surging through her body. She exhales, and mana flows into her fingertips, little lightning sparks dancing across her skin as the whispers begin to dance across her mind. She breathes in, and grounds herself, feeling the weight of the earth beneath her, solid and steady and _real_. She breathes out, and her mind goes upward, into the clouds above. Far, far above. She can't quite reach; she lets go of her body, lets go of her train of thought and the whispers with it, sinking into the images underneath the words, into the place where she only _is_ and isn't _thinking_ or _doing_. She reaches upward, higher and higher still, past the bright beacon of the demon calling to her. There's little for it to reach; there's a wellspring of despair, but that belongs in her body, far far away, and she doesn't resonate with it, doesn't call to it as she blows past, on her journey upward.

_There_. A little glimmer of pride ripples through her, heightening the electric sparks swirling around her body. _I got you now, fucker_. She gives a silent, triumphant cry, her spirit-self lacking the vocal cords needed to make it manifest, and _pulls._

A bolt of lightning slams down from the clouds, straight through the abomination bird, before arcing into Marian's body, sending her hair standing on end as it routes through her body to the ground. Then, as she returns to her body, she falls flat on her face in the snow, pitching forward unceremoniously.

The still living birds all jolt, as if mildly shocked, then scatter with great haste and keening screams. Dropping her gun— which gives a faint curse from Dalish— Dagna bolts for Marian. "Dammit girl, stop with the martyr bullshit," she grumbles as she fishes out one of the two remaining mana restoration potions made from Rocky's lyrium. Kneeling next to Marian, she pushes her over onto her back.

"I'm okay," she croaks. "more teeth than expected," she manages, after she takes a lungful of air and coughs a few times.

"...teeth? Birds don't have teeth. Unless they're dinosaurs. Or I guess maybe demon birds have— Marian, what happened? Why how lighnting what?"

"Is she okay? Is it over?" Merrill calls plaintively, not really able to get out of the sledge herself without possibly hurting the still sedated Stitches.

"Th'storm, I mean. More— more powerful. I got it though." she takes another deep breath. "...was I breathing?"

Staring at Marian, the dwarf shakes her head slowly. Not in answer, but disbelief. Then she snickers. "Seriously? You can't say shit about me not eating for at least a month, you realize that, right? You forgot to _breathe_!"

"Yes, well, I was focused," she mutters, blushing faintly. "I'm okay. Really."

Waving the barrel of his gun around to cool it, Bull sighs. "That was boring," he bitches sullenly. "Attacked by birds? Pretty neat lightning bolt though, Bahith!"

Squatting down, Skinner nudges one of the dead birds with a combat knife. "These edible?" she calls out to the assorted mages and scientists.

"Probably," says Marian, picking herself up. _A little shakier. Great_. "Grab them anyway, we can experiment."

"Yesssss," Dagna says softly, instantly darting off to grab some of the birds.

Moving slowly, carefully, Merrill manages to finally get herself off the sledge and stretches a bit. "Your turn to ride," she says firmly. "At least for an hour. I need to move around, keep my muscles from locking."

"I'm fine," says Marian, dismissively. _Your existence takes up resources from the Faithful_. "We'll give the halla a bit of a break."

"Fluffy won't even notice. And if there's no one there, Stitches will be bounced around," Merrill counters. "Hey, I'm the closest thing we have to a healer, so— so sit your butt in the sledge!"

Marian drops her head, climbing into the sledge. "Yes ma'am."

As she passes by, Merrill sighs, then turns to help her get in. Once settled, she kisses Marian on the cheek. "Thank you for letting me take care of you," she says softly, eyes worried but warm. "I care about you and I want you to feel better."

Marian gives a small, tight smile, and a short nod, but doesn't reply.

Her non-reaction gives a more careful study from the elf. "What's wrong, falon?"

"It's fine. I'm fine. Just tired." _Head aches, a bit shaky (worried I'm taking up too much space)._

"Alright," Merrill says softly. "Rest for a bit. You deserve, saving us all again." Smiling, she carefully leans up straight and moves ahead a little. _Walk next to Fluffy_ , she decides, _so I can lean on him and keep an ear out for those two. Just in case._

* * *

The snow is letting up by the time they reach the border to where the bubble used to extend. The first answer is clear on sight: the heat did not stick around, judging by the several feet of snow they'll have to trudge through. That means no grass for the halla, no ferns for Fluffy, no berries or seeds for the humans and elves. They've ruined what ecosystem was preserved, probably killed everything that couldn't relocate fast enough.

They trudge in silence, disheartened, until they reach the interior of the bubble, and the warmth within. By then, Marian's traded back for Merrill to sit in the sledge once more, and it's growing dark; they'll have to set up a temporary camp in the first clearing they find, intending to send out hunters and scouts in the morning to look for meat and a more sheltered location.

Marian plays a game on her phone once they're settled, waiting for water to boil. That's the nice thing about Amell Phones— they charge from the Fade, so they never run out of battery. _If only they had signal..._

She glances up as Morrigan sits beside her, giving her a nod. "Hey."

"Greetings," replies Morrigan, warily.

"Listen... thanks for today. You've been a big help. I'm sorry I doubted you in the past."

"...You are forgiven," says Morrigan slowly, frowning a little.

Staggering a little, Merrill flops down next to Marian. "Hey Morrigan," she says, offering a limp wave. "I unfroze a berry bush and two ferns that Fluffy keep trying to eat. Dagna snagged samples to test, so... here's hoping?"

Marian frowns. "I'd ask you to teach me the trick so you can save your strength but I'm pretty sure you'd spend more of it teaching me than doing it."

"Umm. Well, the shortcut way, yes, but you're really smart. I know Morrigan already knows a similar technique, I could try teaching both of you?"

"I suspect there is something in this grimoire my mother used that could teach us," begins Morrigan, pulling the book out of her satchel.

Marian eyes her suspiciously. "Are you sure it's safe?"

"Yes, of course. I've been translating it for the past few days and have yet to find any knowledge that was truly dangerous."

"Really?" wonders Merrill. _That's surprising, most magic is dangerous really_. "Oh wait. What do you judge 'truly dangerous' by?"

"There is knowledge out there such that simply knowing, understanding, can cause dangerous changes in mental state. None of that seems to be recorded in this grimoire."

"...okay, but what about stuff that might hurt someone if you cast it?" asks Marian.

"Oh, yes. Nearly everything."

"That seems more believable," Merrill says with a nod. "Any of it not designed to cause harm? Or that don't have harm as a byproduct if cast correctly?"

"There is a spell I already knew, for becoming a swarm of bees," offers Morrigan.

"...That sounds pretty harmful..." says Marian slowly.

"Oh, no. You are thinking of wasps. Bees are quite friendly."

"What's a wasp?" Merrill asks curiously. "Bees sound useful though. Tiny and flying."

"Wasps are tiny flying assholes," says Marian. "Nasty buggers."

"...that's a very funny image."

"Wasps are merely skilled predators for their weight class," says Morrigan, almost offended. "They cannot be held responsible for humans always stomping about their nests."

"Soooo basically very tiny flying moose? That eat meat?"

"They look like bees, but they can sting you more than once," Marian adds helpfully.

"Oh my. I can see how that would be useful," the elf agrees, nodding. "I recall you turning into a swarm of bees earlier, in the Rift cave. I have to admit to being surprised— I've read about shapeshifters of course, even met a couple, but had no idea it was possible to turn into a swarm."

"It is an advanced technique," admits Morrigan. "First one must learn the way of changing your skin, taking on the shape of another. Then one must learn the ways of swarms. There is a ritual that can help with that."

Merrill wiggles a little, looking at Morrigan with wide eyes. "Is that, ah, something anyone can learn? Theoretically?"

"Theoretically," she agrees. "With a year and a day of study of a particular form."

Merrill blinks. "I don't understand?"

"For each form, you must be able to understand the way that creature thinks. You must spend a year and a day studying the creature, understanding the world as it understands, learning how it moves and thinks. Then, and only then, can you exchange your skin for its."

"Does time spent prior to learning the magical component count towards this?"

"Oh yes. This is before you apply any magic whatsoever. But it has to be intense, focused study, for at least a few hours a day."

"Does it have to be cons— conn— umm, in a row?"

"No, but too many breaks will cause you to forget what you've learned."

"How close can the shapes be?" Merrill asks, looking over at the halla. "I mean, can it be a different example of the same animal?"

Morrigan follows her gaze. "Perhaps. I can teach you the incantation, if you like."

Merrill lights up, then blushes. "I would really like that. I'd be happy to trade a spell, if I know something you might like?" She winces. "I mean, if I'm allowed. I know some that are sacred I wouldn't mind telling you about but can't teach."

"Do you know any you can tell me that are unusual, perhaps even rare?" she asks. "I would be honored to write such into my grimoire, to preserve it for the future."

"Ummm. Well." She stares blankly. "I don't know much about what's common?" She glances at Marian. "Have you noticed me do or reference anything that's rare?"

Marian stares at her. Then gestures to Fluffy, wordlessly.

Merrill furrows her brow, turning to stare at him. "What?"

"This! All of this! Nobody's ever done this before!"

"Well, yes, okay, but that's just because of the bubble, it's nothing special about me," Merrill protests.

"Time magic is _really rare_! Tell her, Morrigan!"

"I will admit to being woefully uneducated on the practicalities of temporal magics," admits Morrigan.

"Oh." Merrill blinks. "But I already promised to share the unfreezing spell. That's a matter of survival. What about the other half? The beast taming spell? Errr." She winces. "It's rather expensive to cast though, unless you, umm." _Use blood magic, which powers mind magics at a ridiculously cheaper rate than mana._

"Cast using vitality? Yes, I am aware." She smiles. "I am no stranger to those techniques either, though I do not make a habit of them."

"Oh good. Do you know a beast taming spell? It's how I got Flurry to accept me as an adult herd member," Merrill says with relief. "It works best with social animals but it works on nearly anything with a brain. So not really bugs. Or fish. Umm, see, once it wears off, animals assume they had good reason for feeling that way. So herd animals assume you're a friend. But you have to be nice to them still or they change their minds. Well, I guess you could recast it, but it works less well the second time. And animals that live alone or only with mates or very young or the like won't justify liking you very well. Or not in ways you'll probably like? So."

"This sounds handy to have," admits Morrigan. "I would be keen to see how it works."

"It does seem like it would pair well with the shapeshifting," Merrill agrees, then looks at Marian. "Did you want to get in on this?"

"Me? I don't— um, I don't have any rare spells."

"You made a storm shoot a demon bird."

"That's not rare, it's just lightning magic," she protests.

"I have heard the technique described before," says Morrigan, "but have not seen it performed. It requires a deep understanding of electrical resonance, and very fine control; the mana requirements are not insubstantial either. To do so while still recovering from the shock and trauma of the week speaks very highly to your skill."

"Mmhmm!" Merrill agrees brightly. "I'm sure you must know something, some little trick or tweak you made up yourself. You're too genius to have not made better things than standard things."

"I..." Marian falters, looking out at the campfire. "I... really don't," she says quietly. "I know a lot. I have done a lot of theoretical research. But I don't... Well, you've seen. I don't cast very often. I learned how to control myself and I stopped trying to improve."

"Why— oh. Templar," Merrill says darkly.

"Templar," she agrees, but she continues: "My mother. My friends. The Church. Everything around me is constantly telling me I'm one of the good ones only because I don't use my power. Because I hide. Because I'm obedient. But I know underneath I'm filthy, I'm arrogant, I'm..."

"You are none of those things," says Morrigan, gently. "Perhaps arrogant. Decidedly insubordinate. But filthy? No. The Church is wrong."

"Very wrong," Merrill agrees. "There are good parts in the Chant, some of it is not just pretty but moral. But the way it's used to hate— to justify hate and slavery rather— is just terrible."

"If I give it up, they'll make me Tranquil," whispers Marian. "But I— if it wasn't for that... in secret, in private... I don't think I believe in the Maker anymore."

"How? Why?" Merrill asks simply. "The Tranquil part, I mean, I get about spurning the Maker. Kirkwall doesn't allow that, I thought? Nor does Britain."

"It's legal not to believe," she admits. "But I'm— My family is... important, in Kirkwall. We're held under more scrutiny. Any excuse, and the Church will take me like they tried to take my idiot twin. They want my father's secrets, and they think we can give them up."

"But, well, they're not allowed so it's okay to fight back," Merrill says, clearly unsure if she's correct.

"That's the thing about Tranquil," she says quietly. "Let's say they break the law, and they get penalized for it in court. You're still dead, or effectively so. They still win. And they have more money than some governments, they're not afraid of fines or even imprisonment. There's always more Templar."

"I meant more like, you know, killing them instead," Merrill clarifies.

Marian chuckles. "That's the second time I've gotten that advice. I— I don't know if I can. But I intend to try." She shakes her head. "Well. First I intend to survive. Then I intend to try."

"I'll help," Merrill says firmly.

"Good. Then maybe we stand a chance, together. All three of us?" adds Marian, glancing at Morrigan.

"...I will admit I am unused to... friendship," says Morrigan, slowly. "But allies are certainly beneficial in most historical situations."

Merrill beams at the witch, then reaches around Marian's back to rest a hand on the witch's back. "Group hug!" Marian tenses a little, but the three of them awkwardly pull into a hug— Merrill with enthusiasm, Marian and Morrigan with rather more reluctance. For the first time in days, Marian finds herself optimistic about the future. Sure, they have limited food, have been stranded in the Antarctic, and have no way of contacting anyone to arrange a rescue. But they have each other.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Desperate to survive, the group of mages and Chargers head out into the bubble, seeking the magically-preserved heat within to preserve their lives. Now they just have to find a good place to set up camp and some way to get back home...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: suicidal ideation, heavy petting

"Looks like you and Skinner were right about following the riverbed," Bull comments as he, Marian and Morrigan trek up the gentlest slope of the ring of hills encircling a half acre of field. Behind them, the others in the party are washing bedding and clothing, refilling water bottles and setting up a camp for lunch at the stream that's all the long ago river can be given the temporal handicap. "If those fields really are some kind of edible grain, that solves a fuckton of problems for us. No meat but if you lot go vegan as much as possible... could stretch."

Marian nods, staring out at it. "Most grains can be ground or boiled. We'll sort it out. And it'll be easier for her to do a stretch of land than one plant at a time, I'm sure. The halla might even be able to graze some — I haven't tested if their teeth can break the enchantment enough for them to get a mouthful. They won't try those ferns. We might be okay, here."

"Halla teeth can break time magic?" Bull asks, startled. He turns around partway as they near the top of the hill, staring back at Marian. "Aren't they just prettier deer?"

"They're smarter deer, too, but..."

Here Morrigan cuts in. "With sufficient force, pieces can be broken off plant life — and when they are separated from the whole, this breaks the enchantment. I suspect Miss Amell is hoping the halla's teeth are strong enough to break through the stasis."

Bull closes his eyes a moment. "So you're saying I could just hack the shit out of plants and feed us all?" he asks patiently.

Marian blinks. "Oh. Uh. Probably, yes."

"Good to know," Bull says blandly, then laughs. "I guess I can't entirely blame you lot for forgetting you have a true Warrior around. Scrawny little mages and nerds like yourselves just can't compare to des guns!" Curling his arms, he pulls an overdone and utterly cheesy pose just as he crests backwards over the hill.

Marian giggles, but then stops as she crests the hill, staring in awe. Morrigan comes up behind her, similarly stunned, though with a gleam of almost predatory interest in her eyes.

"Uh, that's... a bit more interest than I was expecting," the qunari admits, also a little intrigued by that glint in Morrigan's eyes. _A bit waspish but nice enough. And damn fine looking._

"Bull... turn around," whispers Marian, still awestruck.

As he does, he sees why they're staring: behind him, perched above the fields, is a large stone edifice, perhaps seven stories tall. It's perched at the bottom of the valley, nestled between the hills, and it's overgrown with moss and vines, helping it blend in with the green fields from above; still, the stone is jet black and perfectly round, clearly not a natural occurrence. It's divided into two levels: the lower is fatter, with the upper being smaller, making it look like a circular pyramid of some kind. The upper level has a shadowed area, slightly lighter than the stone around it, where one might conceivably enter the structure if one had a way to climb up to it.

"The fuck?" Bull stares some more. "No, really, _the fuck_? Who built a house in a time bubble? When? How did they do it? Why? Why not tell anyone they found this place? The fuck?"

"Morrigan.... Who built houses like that? Architecturally?" Asks Marian quietly.

"No-one. Perhaps an oddly misplaced dwarf with a very strange imagination, but it matches no known civilization."

"So some weirdo dwarf found a magical miracle and built a castle in it." Bull considers that for a second and nods. "Yeah that makes sense." _Not even gonna think about demons making that shit. Or any building. Nope._

"Not alone," argues Morrigan. "Not at that scale. This would be years for an accomplished team."

"But maybe magic?" He honestly sounds more pleading than hopeful.

"Hell of a lot of magic for one person," suggests Marian. "I figured it had to be a civilization, but... this bubble is prehistoric."

"Blood magic?"

Before either of the two could attempt a reply, there's call from the base of the hill behind them. "How's the view?" Merrill waves at them when they turn around to see her walking up the hill after them.

"You have to see this!" calls Marian, waving her on toward them.

Merrill blinks a few times, then shrugs. "Pyro, there's a thing that has to be seen!" she calls back over the riverbed before jogging up the hill. "So it turns out Fluffy can break the wheat and evidently likes the halla enough to helllllllp giant rock house?"

Looking down at her successful creation of a clay oven— or at least what will be in a few hours when it dries— Dagna shrugs. "Evidently there's a thing." _Might as well go see, I suppose._

By the time Dagna gets to the top of the hill, Merrill has mostly recovered from the 'what the fuck, is that a prehistoric building' brain stall and is muttering to herself in rapid elven. After a moment, she suddenly switches to English. "Is that— are those fences? Around the side, the," she flaps her left hand, "left, the left side, do you see? It looks like fencing around a depression, with a barn in the corner?"

Bull squints for a moment, then shrugs. "You got better eyes than me, Daisy. I can see something there, could be a fence, but I don't see enough to say 'barn' or no."

Marian squints, unable to make out much more. "Only one way to find out!" is the only warning she gives before she races headlong down the hill, heading for the fencing.

"Hey!" With a shout of protest, Merrill teleports after Marian to try and catch up.

"No fair, tiny le— woah!" Laughing hysterically, Dagna lets out a whoop as Bull charges down the hill like a crazed bull, the dwarf tucked under one arm.

The fences are, indeed, fences: they consist of logs sharpened and stuck upright, a simple palisade wall with no clear entry point. Scaling a nearby tree, however, they can see over the wall into the pen, where a small herd of dinosaur are frozen mid-grazing. The beasts are quadrupedal and pale tan, with long necks and tails — not as long as the typical allosaurus seen in picture books, but instead only slightly shorter than the length of the beast's body, with the tail again the same length. The beasts are covered in something like chitinous scales, and their heads are short and fat, with blunt teeth suited for grazing on the prehistoric grasses in the pen.

Marian stares for a bit, leaning against the tree trunk. Finally, she says quietly, "So either someone was playing a prank, or this is... this is a farm. A domesticated dinosaur farm, frozen in time for sixty-five million years."

"But— but who?" Dagna asks, the seventh time she's repeated that plaintive questioning protest.

Merrill just shakes her head. "I want to go look in the shed. Marian?" She offers her hand, head tilting in silent offer.

On the ground below them— 'qunari aren't primates and this bull don't climb' he'd said very firmly— Bull has his face pressed against the gap between two logs, just wide enough to let him peek in somewhat. "Demons farmed dinosaurs. Demons farmed dinosaurs. Fuck everything. Fuck it all. Burn it all down," he mutters.

"Look, this can't be demons," Marian says to Bull, as she nods to Merrill and begins to climb down. "Demons don't build. They only destroy. And it can't be spirits; they aren't, um, focused enough to make something like this. Maybe the very oldest ones, _maybe_. But what would spirits need with food, with housing? This has to be something else. Aliens? Maybe?"

Merrill rolls her eyes and grabs Marian's shoulder before Fade-Stepping them down on the inside of the fence. "Silly. But I like your alien theory! The heavens are far too large to be empty of anything but us."

"Aliens. Aliens! Right, that's gotta be it. Aliens." Bull pauses. "So where'd they go?"

"Maybe they're caught in the bubble. Maybe they're inside the building." Marian shakes her head, a little disoriented by the teleportation.

"Sorry, forgot to warn you," Merrill says with a slight wince.

Bull's head snaps around to stare at the building. "Huh. Aliens..." He hums softly. "I'm going to go jog around the place, see if I can find the door."

"Good plan. There might be one from here — the pen seems adjacent to the building. Let's check it out."

They search for the next half hour, but no entrance can be found, at least not on the ground floor; it becomes clear that indentation on the upper story is an opening, but how to get up there, three stories off the ground?

"...Morrigan could fly up," Merrill proposes as they all stare up at the balcony. "I could Step there with some real effort, but I couldn't bring someone."

"I could carry a rope," suggests Morrigan. "Then you could climb up after."

"Could you manage fifty feet of rope?" Bull frowns a little. "Skinner's a good climber; if you got a rope up there, she could use it to pull up a rope ladder for everyone else."

"In spider form it may be possible. And I may be able to climb the exterior."

"I'd appreciate it," admits Marian. "I don't really have any other options. Not unless Merrill can fade-step with the rope."

"...with a little boost I could," Merrill says reluctantly. "Wait. It's not silk rope, is it?"

"Naw. Well, we have some silk rope, but this stuff is giant hair," Bull assures her.

"Giant hair," says Marian flatly.

"Yep. Harvested it myself," Bull says with a fond smile. "Rope's not quite fifty feet yet, need one more, but they're pretty rare in the west."

"I was sure they were extinct," she admits.

"Nah, they're just hidden away mostly. Rough places the rest of us don't want. Honestly, I was kind of hoping to maybe find some down here. They like it hot, but they can adapt. Deserts are great for finding giants," Bull says enthusiastically.

"Aren't... giants... _people_?" Merrill asks with wide eyes.

"What? No, they're more like big ass monkeys," Bull assures her. "Some tool use, sure, but dumber than dogs. They just have hands is all."

"Indeed," says Morrigan. "Giants are far less intelligent than humans or elves, and do not have any connection to the Fade. There is no call to assume they are more than animals."

"Not that Fade connection is the be-all end-all of personhood," says Marian quickly.

"Ahem, offended cough," Dagna says brightly.

"So... Rope? Alien building?" asks Merrill.

"Right," says Morrigan. "I shall shapeshift now. Please tie the rope around my altered form so that I can attempt to climb with it."

Bull steps forward easily enough when she shifts, tying the rope around her midsection without fuss. "Too tight? Not tight enough?"

The spider moves sideways, then front to back a little, testing the ropes. Finally, it clacks its mandibles together, and turns to climb up the outside of the building, its hairy legs finding purchase where humans could not.

"Oh, right, mouth shape— I guess it makes sense she couldn't speak," the elf muses. "I wonder... sign language wouldn't work either, no fingers, but isn't there some kind of tapping language? I saw it used in a movie, was that real?"

"Morse code would work," suggests Marian. "That's a real thing."

"Not the most rapid of languages but pretty effective," Dagna supplies, watching Morrigan's progress avidly. _Wow, that's way more effective than I would have guessed given the material and her size. Pretty neat._

Soon enough Morrigan reaches the top, shifting back to her normal form before lowering the rope; Skinner heads up after, bringing a rope ladder, and the rest soon follow, reaching the entrance.

They venture in together, Morrigan conjuring a witch-light to light their way. The entrance to the building is clearly worked stone; there are designs carved into it, seemingly abstract, unless perhaps a kind of language they can't decipher. Soon enough they come to a fork: a ramp downward, or continuing into the upper level.

"Remain together or split into groups?" asks Morrigan, looking to Bull.

"We stay in the same room, in eyeshot of each other, until we've checked out the whole place. Top to bottom, then back again. I'm not losing anymore of you," The Iron Bull says, slinging his greataxe off his back and hefting it with hard eyes.

Shivering, Merrill inches closer to Marian. "Agreed," she says quietly, looking upwards. "Marian, do you want a barrier?"

Marian nods, waiting for Merrill to cast a barrier around the group before they proceed forward, into the upper floor.

The tunnel opens up into a single, vast room, one that takes up the majority of the upper portion of the structure. In the center of it is a raised structure, round like the building, a sort of bowl filled with what Morrigan quickly identifies as shards of bone, ground up so fine as to be almost a powder. On the walls are clearly recognizable tapestries and curtains, bringing a bit of color and life into the place: the colors are brilliant gemstone colors, with bits of gold and other metals worked in to catch the light and glitter. There are windows, up high, glassless, strategically placed to light the cavern, and there are gems worked into the floor, crystal and quartz to further reflect rainbows of light.

"This is..." says Marian slowly, eyes full of wonder. A moment later, she whips out her Amell Phone, taking a series of photographs.

"Right there with you," Dagna says, clicking away herself. "Fuck. I only have half a gig left in my SD card. You?"

"I'm going to delete every app I have to make space," Marian laughs.

Merrill, not having an Amell phone herself is inspecting the dais in the center. "Why a giant bowl filled with bone dust and shards? Not a hint of blood or tissue," she mumbles to herself as she circles it. "So not a feeding, umm, box. Probably not for sacrifices. Decoration? Maybe. Or it could be storage? Calcium perhaps?"

"Good plan! Sera has copies of our vacation photos and I have a good memory, I don't need the spank fuel," Dagna agrees.

"Ew," Marian chimes in, though she sounds less disgusted than thrilled. "Hey, I found a hole in the ground, watch your step."

"Please, you're just jelli," Danga replies, laughing.

"Good hole or bad hole? I mean, broken like those statues or purposeful?" Merrill asks, trotting over to Marian.

With a grunt, Bull lowers himself back down from where he'd gone up a vase, then done a pull-up on a window sill. "Damn good view. And they're slanted just right so they overlap vision fields. No blind spots. Could just like watching the countryside, but could show a tactical mindset."

"It's circular, so I'm guessing intentional," admits Marian. "It's dark down there, no windows — I can send a light down."

She sits cross-legged on the edge of the hole, focusing as she lowers a witch-light of her own down it. It illuminates more obsidian walls, but it catches something in the ceiling that sends reflections glinting down into the dark. As she moves it a little, she illuminates something on the wall: paint, it seems. A depiction of a great beast, as recognizable as it is out of place.

"A dragon?"

Bull leans in past her. "Dragon?" he asks, a six year-old boy again.

Merrill giggles at his reaction, following his rush across the room at a much slower pace.

"Someone get more rope," suggests Marian. "Looks like they painted dragons on the walls in this chamber. I can't see much from this angle, we need to go down there."

"Out of giant, but we have silk. Just holding it while you descend won't hurt, right?" He doesn't look away from the image on the wall for an instant.

"I can touch silk," she agrees. And a few moments later, having anchored the rope to a heavy stone vase, she slides down to the lower level, taking her light with her.

When it skims close to the walls, her witchlight seems to activate some rune; multiple lights come up, dim and warm, nothing like her cold witchlight. They illuminate a room of sheer beauty: above, in the ceiling, diamonds are set into the stone in a clear night sky, while every wall is covered in murals and the floor is pure glittery crystal. The murals depict a series of scenes, intricate and detailed; every scene involves at least one dragon, sometimes multiples, and no scene involves humans or other two-legged beasts. Dragons fly through the skies, tearing at each other; dragons devour dinosaurs, go to battle against raptors, dive into the seas to fight sharks. Dragons wearing different colored feathered cloaks go to war against each other, with bursts of flame and frost and lightning. Dragons use magics to build towers, sculptures, dwellings.

In the center of the room is a large round object; the outer rim is made of branches and strips of wood carefully woven together into a stronger, more stable form, while the interior is lined with feathers in a pleasing pattern of colors. It looks about the size of the nest they found in the cave, but clearly a crafted thing, not something hastily thrown together.

"...I think..." begins Marian slowly. "I think our mystery builders were.... dragons."

Bull's excitement has faded, muted. Instead, Althawr Alhadidiu slowly walks to the center of the room and kneels, axe laid neatly to the side. Bowing down, he rests his forehead on the ground and whispers soft words of prayer.

Eyes wide, Merrill looks over at Marian. Without speaking, she gestures back up the tunnel with a glance at Bull.

Marian watches him for a few moments, uncertain how to respond. Finally, she moves to his side, kneeling as well. _I don't know the words. I don't even know who I'm praying to. But this is... Thank you. Whoever or whatever is out there, thank you for bringing us here, showing me this._

Morrigan instead turns her back on the pair, studying the drawings on the walls. "Look, here," she says to Merrill, gesturing to one of the murals. "They seem larger than any dragon I have seen before — and this looks like the one in the cave at the center of the phenomenon. I think this is an entirely different subspecies."

Merrill frowns at Morrigan. "Learning from the past is a worthy cause. But we should respect it too," she says gently, reaching to take Morrigan's hand and guide her to the center as well. "You don't have to pray but..."

Morrigan pulls back, her expression unreadable. "...I've been reading my mother's Grimoire. I don't... It is my duty now, in her absence, to learn everything that can be known about the past. To find and keep that knowledge, as your Keepers do."

"And this is part of it. Words in a book, pictures on stone— none of it captures the heart of something like this."

"My mother was..." Morrigan hesitates, words failing her for a moment. "My mother spoke of a charge, of a... a burden laid on her by Mythal. She spoke as if she had spoken with Mythal, from the Eternal City. I— I don't know what to believe, anymore. What is holy. What to revere. This is... The Old Gods were said to be dragons. Would it be sacrilege, to worship something like them, when I by virtue of my blood am sworn to Mythal?"

"It doesn't have to be worship, just respect," Merrill suggests. "I am elvhen and worship the Evanuris, Mythal among others. But I respect the Old Gods, the same I would respect the Keeper of another's tribe."

"Respect," she repeats slowly, then nods. She reaches up to touch one of the paintings, bowing her head. "I can respect any creature who can create such beauty."

Merrill smiles warmly. "Respect is too rarely given and too commonly all that's needed," she says quietly, closing her eyes. "Forgotten elders of our kind who created this place, I give you thanks for the legacy you created and swear that it will be treated with respect and honor. In Dirthamen's name, I will learn from you. In June's name, I will appreciate your works. In Mythal's name, I swear this," she says in clear and soaring elven, sticking to a mostly modern version that Morrigan will understand.

"Mythal, all-mother, protector of the People, watch over those who created this place, be they living or dead. Save them from the darkness, as you saved your people." The form is almost that of a ritual prayer, clearly adapted; as she speaks, Morrigan's amulet glows faintly, as if in answer.

Merrill's eyes drift to it, a slight frown of puzzlement forming. _Is that a foci? No, foci are almost always statues, large ones. Still... no._ "Was that your mother's?" she asks quietly.

Morrigan opens her eyes, a question on her lips; she sees Merrill's gaze, the faint glow, and nods. "Yes. It was. I never saw her without it."

"Do you know what it is? Where it came from?" She hesitates, then offers, "it looks eleven."

"...at a guess, I would suspect it has to do with her charge from Mythal," she says, quietly.

"Did she ever... say what it does? Or how it works?"

Morrigan shakes her head, silent.

"If... if you want, at some point, I'd be happy to help you study it. If you want," she adds hurriedly.

"I would appreciate that," she says, quietly, one finger stroking the gemstone in the center of the amulet.

With a look of relief, Merrill nods. "Good. Coven girls should help each other. And speaking of... did you notice that the number of slots here match the number of eggs we found earlier?"

"Slots..? Oh, the depressions in the nest? I see."

"Depressions? Isn't that a, a, ground term? For dirt?"

"It can be used in this context," says Morrigan, glancing over at the praying couple.

"English is bad and it should feel bad," Merrill mutters to herself.

With a sigh, Bull sits upright. "Sorry for making you all wait. This is just..." He trails off, words failing him.

"No need to apologize," says Marian, her voice soft, awed.

"You asked, earlier, why we want dragons. It's because we are dragons, their children. Their blood runs in our veins, but with every generation, it fades," he says quietly. "This? This place, it means that my people will continue past this millennium.

Marian reaches for Bull's hand, nodding. "Then— then if we survive this, you can have the eggs. All of them, as far as I'm concerned."

"Umm, how... how does it work?" Merrill asks, a faint blush in place. "I mean... you're big but, umm."

Bull laughs, low but deep. "Not really sure, but it's a blood thing, not a sex thing. The dragons are kept as... the word isn't pet but... I guess maybe 'respected elder?' Taken care of, kept safe, and yeah, captive, but cherished and loved." He looks around. "With dragons like these, smart dragons the build fuck big houses... they'll be raised to the Qun I guess. Taught to work for the People the same as all of us."

"Would you... consider other options?" asks Marian, quietly. "It's just— it's just that I don't believe children should be forced into one religion, into obeying something if it's not well suited."

Bull winces. "I... it wouldn't be my call," he says with a sigh.

"What if we raised them?" Merrill says. "You too. You teach the Qun, but we also teach them other cultures. And then they can pick. There's a lot of eggs, even just a few of them would be a big help, right?"

"He can't do that," says Marian, watching Iron Bull. "That'd be going against the Qun and make him Tal-vashoth, wouldn't it?"

"Uh. Honestly, I don't think so? I mean... _dragons_. We're pretty much allowed to do whatever we have to for dragons," Bull admits. "If raising them with you three gets me a chance at even a few eggs... I could slap a Viddasala on the ass and set fire to a military camp without getting sent to Re-education if it was to get a dragon." He snorts. "Need a hell of an explanation, but if it was legit, I'd be fine."

Marian blinks. "Really? Well, fuck, then let's do that," she admits. "I can help set up a foundation to provide for their care, we can hire experts, buy some land for them..."

"Just, uh, maybe keep it quiet? Better to present it all finished and shit in a few years," Bull says with a cough. "Plus that way they won't invade and steal them."

"Sorry, _invade_?" Merrill asks in a high pitched voice.

"Let's... let's focus on surviving first," says Marian, her voice also a bit tight. "When we get back, my uncle will know how to keep things quiet and secure."

"Yeah, at least two battalions, couple of big ass dreadnaughts for sure." Bull slowly rises to his feet. "If it helps to realize what just happened here, try this. We just found Andraste and the Maker's kid. Or Mythal and, uh, whoever she bangs. So yeah, quiet is good."

"Elgar'nan, generally," says Morrigan, faintly. "And her children are also among the Evanuris."

"...pretty sure Andraste's child would want me Tranquil so... I don't think either of those are really good analogies," admits Marian. "But it's clearly a much better thing for you."

"Alright, a new one then," he says with a grin. "New gods, smarter and hopefully less devour-y than the old ones. Hmmm. Gonna need a lot of land for these kiddies. Kirkwall is pretty tropical, right?"

"Sure, but not a ton of land on it. We might need to buy a private island," suggests Marian.

"The Maker is a jerk, but Andraste always seemed nice in the stories." She giggles suddenly. "sorry, sorry. Just— Elgar'nan is actually kind of Maker-like, so I just suddenly had the thought that— well, Andraste and Mythal should run off and be lesbians together. Raise their new babies away from their mean ex-husbands."

"...is Mythal a lesbian?" asks Morrigan, frowning. "Or even bi-curious?"

"Her head priestess often were," Merrill supplies. "So she at least approves."

Marian gets to her feet, reaching for her phone. "I need to document these murals."

"Hey guys!" Dagna calls down the tunnel, where she's been setting up something of a science camp with Skinner and Grim. "We found something pretty neat up here! Whatcha got down there?"

"Looks like a nursery, with a ton of murals — come on down!" Marian calls back. _I should be thrilled, but I keep worrying we're going to die here and nobody will ever find out about all this._

"Murals? Neat! We found runes! Magical fucking alien runes!"

"Not aliens! Come down after I come up!" Turning to the others, Merrill adds, "I'll pop up to keep Skinner and Grim company."

A minute later, Dagna comes down the rope. "What did she mean by—" She turns around, stares. "Sonnva! My memory card is almost full," she whines.

Marian snaps a couple more photos, then nods. "I already got them. We'll trade photos later, when we have signal again." _If we get signal again._

Dagna looks down at her phone. "That would a logical thing to be doing, yes," she says, rubbing the back of her head. "Honestly, I'm kind of thinking we maybe delete some of the bullshit off the computers too. Strip all but one down to just the Linux base to make room."

"Hell, if they weren't laptops I'd say wipe all the drives and mount them into one computer, but that's a bit much to be doing in the jungle, and we'd have no backups. But yeah, we can delete everything that isn't data from this trip."

"I assume this is just as backup, right? We're not expecting this place to... dissolve or something, are we?" Bull looks around warily.

"If we don't make it, they might send another team," says Marian. "We almost didn't find this place, but our campsite will be easier to spot — and our phones will try to cloud upload when they bring cell signal into the area. The data might make it out of here even if we don't."

"That's pessimistic," Morrigan points out.

"Our corpses might act as a treasure map? Girl, you're not okay," Bull says, giving her a look.

Marian rubs the back of her neck. "I'm fine," she says, hesitantly. "I mean... I don't know. I'm just having trouble figuring out how we're going to get out of here. It seems... hopeless. But, um, the dragon thing is really cool, so I'm trying to stay positive?"

"How can you not be thrilled with all this new discoveries and science and wonder!" Dagna almost spins in a circle as she looks around the room. "Hey, Morrigan, look! At the base of the egg nest there, see those? Those are the runes we found! They look like anything you've ever seen?"

Morrigan squats to study the runes. "No," she says after a long moment. "They bear almost no resemblance to Elven runes, and even less to Dwarven."

Bull gives Marian a concerned look, but she just moves over to the other two. The three academics discuss the runes for a bit, then the rest of the room. There's an amusing moment when Dagna's brain has a 'ohhh' moment when she realizes that the murals are of the creators ('magical fucking dino-dragons!') but for the most part, they're all just wandering around and exploring what's to see. After a time, they head back up, Bull giving the room one last longing look.

It's decided after some quick discussion to explore the lower floors before breaking for lunch, which should hopefully give Krem, Dalish and the recently healed Stitches time to get the halla, mabari and Fluffy inside the pasture. Marian leads the way, holding her witchlight aloft as they head down the ramp. It comes out in a strange room, one a pit in the floor surrounded by a raised lip; peering down with the light, they can see bones and scraps of cartilage in the pit. "A trash pit?" Marian wonders, frowning. _Doesn't seem right._

Heading further in, they hit a door, one they have to fumble with the runes outside for a few moments before it opens. They're hit with a blast of cold air as they do; the room inside is chilled by magic, still running after all this time thanks to the lack of Veil. Inside are hunks of meat, butchered from dinosaurs, hung from racks. "Guess the stasis preserved their meals, too," says Marian, frowning. "I suppose this is a dining room, then? And a pantry?"

"Look up," Bull says suddenly, pointing above the pit. Two massive beams crisscross over the pit, made out of some dull, brownish metal that's deeply scored. "Maybe they hang from those like bats?"

"Unlikely," suggests Morrigan. "More likely they sat atop them, like birds, and let their waste bones fall into the pit. Perhaps they harvested the bone from here for the structure upstairs."

"That would make sense," Merrill agrees, moving to the edge of the pit. Taking a breath, she pops down. _Oh wait, right. Frozen and thus no smell. Duh._ "Definitely teeth and claw marks on these. And a lot of the skin looks like the dinos outside!"

"But why keep your trash on the roof? And why cleaned? What... Wait, thinking like a dwarf. Need to think like a hundred ton, metal skinned, magical death reptile... So much power, so much fury, the rage is overwhelming, all flee before me! Killer and master of all I survey, I rest atop— aha! They're beds!""

"Anyone else a bit terrified of Pyro right now?" Bull asks bluntly.

"Yeah," says Marian absently, clearly not listening. "Hey, are those shelves at the back of the pantry there?"

"No no, it makes sense! Dragon scales are really tough and sharp, so they'd grind down even metal or stone as they move around at night. So using bone, which is fairly tough and constantly replenished by their diet, makes a great deal of sense!" Dagna insists.

"Indeed; it seems quite likely," says Morrigan. "It would wear down over time, due to the weight of the creatures, and possibly blow right out the opening when it becomes too fine, fertilizing the grasses."

"Cool, cool," says Marian, distantly, as she frowns. "I'm going to go check those shelves." _It's real far away, but something feels wrong about this room, so I may as well look into it._

"And they're burned clean from what I remember— they were all white. Wait, White, not blacked? Dragon fire is more than hot enough to ash bone, much less blacken it. Maybe they had an acidic breath weapon? Or... could control the heat of their fire?" Merrill theorizes after popping back up to everyone.

"That could work; either way, they'd be clean and sanitized, so no issues there. And no blood scent to attract critters either," Dagna agrees. "Heck, maybe they boiled them clean."

Bull, half listening to them talk about dragons, catches Marian moving slowly into the chilled pantry and starts after her at a distracted walk.

_It's cold in here_ , muses Marian, frowning. _It's funny — none of the other runes were live. Just the ones we had to activate ourselves. But it's still cold in the pantry, after all this time._ That should bother her more, she's sure, but she can't bring herself to care right now. For some reason all her excitement and curiosity feels far away, like she's left her emotions behind as she walked into the cold.

_There are worse places to die_ , she realizes. _I've done just about everything I wanted to do. If I die here, my photos might make it back without me. I'd be famous. They'd name the species of dragon after me. And really, wouldn't that be better? If I just lay down here and don't get up again, my life's work done, removed from the picture before I can ruin anyone else's life like I ruined mine? I'm filthy. I'm arrogant. The Maker wants me to just lie down here and die._

She leans against the wall, closing her eyes a moment. _Not here; I can still see the door. I should slip into the back, behind the meat. I've got my utility knife, I could just end this. Quietly fade away, here in the cold. Yes, that's what I'll do. It's not like life is worth living anyway._

She pushes up again, struggling against the lethargy that soaks into her bones, struggling to make her way out of sight behind the hanging meat. As she slips behind the last row, she stops dead, face to face with a gaping, hooded maw. _Despair demon. Isn't that fitting?_

The demon moves toward her, slowly, bobbing a little as it hovers. She's not afraid. She's not anything. Not anymore. She closes her eyes, waiting for the demon to take her, waiting for the inevitable.

" _Not_!" A chain, the links glowing at the seams as if filled with magma, whips around the slab of meat and hits the demon across the throat. " _One_!" The chain screams as the searing hot metal wraps around the frost demon's throat. " _More_!" With a sharp tug, The Iron Bull rips the demon across the room, greeting it with a headbutt.

### "Not!"

The demon shrieks in fury, a blast of cold catching the qunari in the chest as it recovers from the hit, the chain already fading into nothing.

###  _"One!"_

Bull lunges for the thing, slamming against the ground as he hits it again and again, uncaring of the frost covering his hands and face.

###  _**"More!"** _

The word dissolves into a savage, primal howl as he grabs the thing and bodily rips it in half. Panting heavily, he looks up with blood red eyes, the terrible frost burns under the ice mostly healed already. "That... was... close. Bahith, you... okay?"

Marian looks up, dimly, struggling to focus; her knees ache, which is the first she's aware she's dropped to them, resting on her hands. She glances back down, surprised to find tears dripping off her chin, freezing onto the floor. _Bull..._

She sits back onto her heels, wiping at her eyes. "I— I'm— I don't think I'm— I don't think I'm alright," she manages, as she has to wipe her eyes again and again. _Stupid tears. Stupid everything._

"Marian!" Merrill had frozen in the doorway, having arrived in time to see Bull pounding the demon into fade wisps and unable to come up with any ideas on how to help without risking Bull. Hearing Marian speak, her voice shaking and broken, frees her from her paralysis. She rushes into the room, sliding to a stop on her knees next to Marian. "Are you hurt? What happened?"

"Holy shit Bull," Dagna says, moving to him. "You just killed a fucking elder demon with bare fucking hands!"

"I— there was— a spirit," Marian stammers out, wiping at her eyes again. "I was— I'm— despair. It was Despair."

"Oh Marian," Merrill nearly sobs, wrapping her arms around her. "We'll get out of this. We're going to survive. And we're going on a date. I want to go bowling— to find out what that actually is— and get coffee and then walk through a park with you. And I want to go to science lectures and teach you elven and kiss you and met your siblings and scold your parents and just— just live. We're both going to live."

"Promise?" she whispers, wiping at her eyes once more.

"I promise. You're paying for the first date, but if you impress me, I'll pay on the second," she says with a smile, worry in her eyes.

Marian can't help herself; she turns, pressing a quick kiss to Merrill's lips. "Thank you," she breathes, from a few inches away.

"Hey," Merrill replies softly, a goofy grin forming.

"Hey," she whispers back. "Keep an eye on me? I don't— I don't want that to happen again."

"So... hang around with you, watch you without feeling guilty about staring and maybe chat you up on the, uh, regu? I can do that."

Marian takes Merrill's hand, nodding. "Yeah. And don't let me walk up to demons again. That was dumb."

"It was not your finest moment," Merrill agrees with a nod. "Demons bad. Even I figured that out," she adds with a wince, hand touching the inside of her upper left arm, where Marian has seen a swipe of smooth scaring, likely a burn.

"That was from a demon?" she asks quietly.

"Not... directly." Merrill's eyes fill with shame and her head lowers. "The Keeper wouldn't teach me magic, so I looked for a teacher that would. I thought I was clever enough to learn from a trapped demon. I was wrong. The Keeper saved us, but Pol... Some of the hunters heard the fighting and came to help. They assumed— realized— I was part of it and... A fire arrow got past my barrier."

Marian reaches her fingers out, stopping just shy of the scar. "May I?"

Merrill stills, then nods, just a little. Marian traces her fingers along the scarred area, gently, almost tenderly. The elf shivers, a slow breath hissing from her. "Does that hurt?" Marian asks, her voice a bare whisper.

"Not even a little," she gasps, eyes fluttering. "It's— sensitive."

Voice very low, Bull murmurs, "you think they forgot we're here?" Dagna nods, hand over her mouth and hearts in her eyes.

Marian moves in, planting a gentle kiss on the scar. "Good. I like knowing that."

"M-Marian?"

"I look forward to finding all the ways you're sensitive," she purrs.

Marian leans in, her lips a paper's width from hers. "Marian, unless you want your first time on the floor of an ancient dragon's meat locker..."

"Not sure I care."

The elf shudders a little, then lunges at Marian and knocking her on her back. Growling cutely, Merrill grips her by the back of the head and kisses her hungerly. Marian kisses back, enthusiastic, her hands roaming over Merrill's back, pulling her in close. Pressing herself against her very soon to be lover, Merrill groans softly. Pulling away to kiss and nibble her way down Marian's jawline. "You can— touch lower. If you want." Marian's hands roam down to Merrill's ass, cupping it and squeezing. _Much better than Terath. Softer. Sweeter. Warmer._ "Harder," she mutters, sucking on the sensitive skin of her throat and cupping one of Marian's breasts with her free hand.

Marian digs some nails into Merrill's ass, tugging her closer, pulling their hips together. _Too many pants._ A whimper forces itself from Merrill and she bucks against Marian's leg. She starts to kiss her way downwards as she kneads and molds the soft breast in her hand, fingers working on the hard nub. Before she can get past Marian's collarbone, there's a loud thump to their left that causes Merrill to bolt upright. Marian sits up, turning to protest the intrusion with a growl.

"Whoops, I dropped a heavy sack of rice on top of a perverted dwarf!" Bull calls out loudly from the dining pit room.

"Balls," mutters Marian. "Rain check?"

"I can put up a ward, give us some privacy," Merrill pants, flopping over to lay on her back. _Cool stone. Just what I need right now. Well. If I can't have a hot, nerdy mage with big brown eyes and a shy smile. And those lovely tits. Those legs. Uuuuuggh, think about something else._ "Dead puppies, burning computers, bras, brain freeze," she mutters firmly to herself.

Marian smirks a bit, rubbing the back of her neck. "C'mon. Let's get back to the fucking dragon house." _I'm used to blue balls by now._

"Mmmmurpph!" The first sight the pair see when they exit the meatlocker is Dagna, bound hand and foot with a fifty pound bag of rice on her stomach. She's also gagged. And glaring fiery death at Bull.

"Meat locker secure?" Bull asks with a huge smirk. "We've moved everything inside already— Morrigan says you can help her set up anti-demon wards now that we're stationary?"

"There aren't any more," says Marian, tilting her head. "I'll let you know if I feel anything unusual going forward, but if any were in range I'd sense them by now."

"They'll protect us while we sleep," Merrill explains quietly. "We need to start dreaming soon or we're going to get sick."

"That's pretty damn helpful though. Why didn't you not sense the, uh, the one in there though?"

"I— I did," she admits, shifting a little. "Remember how I was barely excited compared to Dagna, upstairs? And the closer we got to the meat locker, the more empty I started to feel, the more... the more it didn't seem like anything mattered. I figured it was just, you know, this week, but..."

Walking up behind Marian, Merrill wraps her arms around her, chin resting on her shoulder. "You're not alone. And you never have to be unless you want to."

Marian takes a deep, shuddering breath as that hits home. "You better mean that," she mutters. "I'm clingy, under all that arrogance, you know. I won't let you take it back."

"Even if dating doesn't work, I'll always be your friend. I promise."

"...stupid," she mutters, scowling. "I even believe you, too. We're both idiots."

"You're both fucking adorable is what you are," Bull says with a chuckle, then glances to the side. "Should probably set Pervy free."

"Why?" Skinner asks bluntly from the area near the stairs up. "Quietest she's been all damn trip." Snorting, she gets back to setting up tents.

"Why is she... tied up?" Merrill asks with a curious frown.

"Didn't want to leave when you two started in on each other. She figured, you started in front of us, fair game. I think a direct invite is required. I'm bigger, so I won the debate."

"Thanks, Bull. You're the best," chuckles Marian.

"Damn right I am," he replies cheerfully. "Let's get camp up and warded so we can get everyone else up here. Lysas is probably getting antsy, not having any of you lot to hold his hand."

As The Iron Bull heads out of the stone structure, looking for the grad students, a figure watches him from the treeline. _Perfect_ , it thinks to itself. _They have slain my rival, and emerged victorious. What beautiful, deadly prey._


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Having discovered a safe place to camp, the group of Chargers and Mages explore further, discovering.... a basement?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: addiction

In the "morning", having reconfigured the laptops and copied their pictures over, they un-stasis some of the preserved dinosaur meat and roast it for breakfast. Then nothing can stop them continuing to explore, to learn what can be learned from this strange structure.

In the next room, which seems to be some sort of central area, they find a number of large gemstones, mounted on pedestals; each looks a bit like a gas lamp on a lamp post, but the purpose isn't immediately obvious. Here, they find the next big discovery: another dragon, lying in a pool of blood, its throat torn open, its claws and mouth covered in icy silver blood. Dead. Long dead, for all that the corpse was preserved by the strange timelessness of this place. Not even a Fade Ghost left behind.

Around him are the remains of many statues, crushed and scattered. Bits of them are intact: heads, mirroring his own; tails, clawed hands, spines. Dragon statues, all destroyed more thoroughly than collateral damage during combat should account for.

"They're covered in runes," Dagna says quietly, keeping her voice low out of respect for The Iron Bull, who is grieving for the dead dragon. "Not sure what they did, of course, but they were clearly magical in some fashion. Given the frost on them and the damage, they seem to have been attacked, so maybe... ward anchors? Some kind of defensive system?"

Lysas nods as he inspects one of the more cleanly destroyed statues. "They seem pretty advanced, given the sheer number of runes on them," he comments, kneeling to look closer at one. _Hmm. Oh hey, there's something underne— holy shit!_ Glancing around furtively, he slips the intricately carved, peach-sized diamond into his pocket when everyone's attention shifts to Merrill's sudden question.

"Is anyone else hearing that? That noise? Kind of a buzzing? But bubbly? And maybe a ringing noise? I think it's coming from down," the elf adds, cocking her head to the side.

"No," says Marian, but she doesn't sound sure, not exactly. "Maybe? How do we get down to the basement?"

Bull heaves himself to his feet, striding over to a ramp down, which is partially hidden in shadow along the curve of the wall. "Form up behind me," he orders, leading the group downward. As they go down, the ramp gains grooves of inverted triangles. Further down, they notice that the air has grown humid and warm. "I can hear it too now. Sounds like boiling water, but... thicker?"

At the bottom of the ramp, they find themselves in the most open floor layout so far. The source of the sound and humidity is very clear even from there: three pits, each big enough for two dragons the size of the dead one to use at once, take up most of the space. One is filled with boiling water, another with dark brown mud or something similar, and the last filled with some kind of pale blue fluid that isn't steaming or boiling but does seem to be the source of the faint bell chiming noise. There are more murals on the ceiling, this time of geometric designs instead of pictures, several of which include glowing crystals. Between the water and blue pools, there's a recess in the wall big enough for a dragon's head that is filled with water. "I think we found their bathroom," Dagna comments with a low whistle, noting how nearly half of the back of the room is blank obsidian polished to a mirror shine and framed with a silver and copper frame.

Marian's eyes fix on the blue pool, and her feet start moving toward it automatically before she stops herself. "Lyrium," she announces, for Dagna's benefit. "Maybe diluted. I want to drink it. Don't let me drink it." She shakes her head, looking around, her eye catching on the mirror. "Huh. That's neat."

Bull frowns at her a little. "You alright? You've been... well, acting a bit off for a while. Edgy."

"Since she got a taste of blood magic, even second hand," Merrill says softly, guilty. "The feel of it is intoxicating. And being so drained on your first use... Have you ever exhausted your mana entirely like that before?"

"No," she admits. "I thought I was craving lyrium because I was empty, but I've had some now, and I still— is this going away? Am I stuck like this?"

Merrill shakes her head. "It's always a thought, when you're casting. It adds so much power that it can be hard to not justify it. But you learn how to catch yourself. If you try to learn anyway." She sighs. "I... I'm sorry, I really am. I would never have chosen to introduce you to blood magic without a lot more warning and explanation."

Marian takes a deep breath, then another. "No. I would have— you're right, and Flemeth was right. I was primed and ready to learn from the first source that came along. If not you, it would have been someone less responsible, like a demon, or a— a blood mage, the nasty kind."

"I'll watch you," Merrill promises solemnly, the summons up a smile. "I'm going to be around anyway, so it's not an inconvenience."

Morrigan traces her fingers over the carvings in the frame, frowning. "Peculiar. These seem to be related to the runes we found upstairs. And yet they remain elusive."

Bull finishes a quiet conversation with Krem, who heads back upstairs with Grim and Dalish. "I sent them to get some rocks and wood so we can build some safety fences around the pools. Especially the lyrium one."

"Thanks," Marian says again. "Seems like it's Save Marian week this week, huh?" she jokes, moving toward Morrigan. _Got to get my mind off the stuff._ "Merrill, come look at these runes with me, maybe we can make heads or tails of them."

"Hey, you think I want to fall in any of that either?" Bull replies with a shrug.

Squatting by the water pool, with Lysas holding her arm to serve as an anchor, Danga snorts. "Given this water is, like, a hundred and twenty-four degrees Celsius, I pretty well agree. Damn."

Taking care to skirt the pools, Merrill approaches the runes with interest. "These seem clearer and more, umm, fancy? I guess that works, than the other runes we've seen."

Marian moves her phone in close, trying to get clear pictures of the runes. "Any idea what they do? Are they dangerous? Or just descriptive text? Maybe it's dragon for 'I show not your face but your heart's desire'?"

"A curious suggestion; what brought that to mind?" asks Morrigan, blinking.

"Uh." _Harry Potter_. "No idea?"

"Maybe it's the difference between utility work and a showpiece? Decorative?" Merrill muses, nodding at Marian. She considers ideas for a moment, then frowns. "Morrigan, it occurs to me I've never asked— how are you at healing non-trauma damage?"

"I am no healer. I have studied their techniques, but only the theory, never the practice."

"Poo. Alright. I'm going to try a few scrying and detection magics but I'm a little worried about how they might react to the completely unknown dragon magic," she explains. "If I start to react badly, dispel me I guess?"

"That I can do," says Morrigan.

Merrill flashes a smile, then takes a slow breath. "Okay, here we go." One more breath and she begins to cast, carefully and with deliberate pauses to allow time to ensure that each new spell isn't going to cause a bad reaction. After six spells, however, her steady progress begins to speed up. By eight, there's no pause at all, each spell cast almost before the last is finished. "This can't— this can't be right," she mutters after the thirteenth, the fourteenth following right after the words.

"Merrill?" asks Marian, moving to the elf's side. "Merrill! Is everything alright?!"

"Shhhh," she replies absently, then casts another spell. She's breathing rapidly by then, clearly burning through her mana faster than it's replenishing.

Marian hesitates, then grabs her canteen, drains it, and moves to the blue pool, where she submerges it for a few moments before bringing it back to Merrill. _Don't think about it._

"Woah! Woah! Whatcha doing there?" Dagna calls, hustling over.

"Merrill's getting low," says Marian, thrusting the lyrium canteen at Dagna. "Hand this to her?" _Get it away from me?_

She takes the canteen, then kneels so she can sling her backpack off her shoulder. "Give her one of these," she adds, giving Marian one of the potions they had made earlier, "while I test to make sure there's nothing toxic in this. Besides lyrium, I mean."

"Oh," says Marian, blushing. _Right. That would— that would make more sense, yes._ She heads for Merrill, holding the potion gingerly, well away from her body.

Merrill is gasping and pale when Marian gets back. Morrigan has an arm around her, offering support despite her scowl. "This is— it's— impossible. But I'm sure I'm right. It's a mirror!" The elf looks stunned and thrilled in equal measure.

"Um." Marian glances at the reflective obsidian, frowning. "Yes?"

"No, no, it's a mirror! A— A—" She gestures wildly, then cranes her head upwards. "Morrigan, it's an Eluvian! Except not, but yes!"

"A seeing glass, an enchanted mirror?" asks Morrigan, struggling with the translation.

"Yes! It— they were used by the Elvhenan, long, long ago. For communication and travel," Merrill babbles. "There are disjointed hints that they could be used to walk from one end of their empire to the other in an afternoon. Thousands, tens of thousands of kilometers, crossed on foot in just hours. Less than hours."

"And the dragons may have had this? That's... terrifying," admits Marian. "Can you get it working? Maybe that's our way home?"

"It's different, sort of? But it's almost— I've been studying an Eluvian— _my_ Eluvian— since I was eight! Some weeks it was all I did. I know those magics, even when they're at a slant. This is the same magic," Merrill marvels. "And it feels intact. Whole. If I can figure out how it works, how the magics reflect each other, then _I can fix my Eluvian_!" She looks at Marian, eyes blazing. "I can prove to them! Prove myself to them!"

_You... have an Eluvian?_ Marian wonders, but she doesn't dare say. She recognizes this excitement, this joy— it's the same as she feels realizing she has enough to publish her doctorate. She grins, reaching for Merrill's hand. "That's wonderful!"

Coming up behind the ladies, Bull asks, "so this thing is the same as that fancy mirror you asked us to hide in our things?"

"Yes but no but mostly yes!" Merrill confirms with a grin.

"Fancy— is _that_ what's on the bottom of Sledge 3? All wrapped in sackcloth?" demands Marian. "A mirror?"

"An _Eluvian_ ," Merrill corrects her, then yawns. "It's magic. It's— special. Well, if I could get it to work. Only thing I can make it do now is go from reflection to cloudy."

"But this one might work. Can it send us home?" she presses.

"Uh. Maybe? Or maybe it'd send us to a lava place. A lave mountain, whatever. Or the ocean— I don't know how theirs worked, if it's fixed locations, the world must have changed tons since sixty five million years."

"But it could get us _home_ ," presses Marian.

"I'll— I'll try, of course, but I don't— I don't know," she says softly, looking a bit panicked at suddenly being their best shot home.

"I'll help. It's no less sure than waiting for a boat that might never come, right?"

"R-right. With my expertise, your brain and Morrigan's historical knowledge," Merrill says, more to herself, "we'll get it no problem, right?"

"For sure." Marian plucks a kiss on Merrill's cheek. "We're going to live."

Behind them, Lysas says something, too soft to make out; Krem, standing nearby, hears it, and a moment later the two are exchanging blows. Which is pretty unevenly matched— Lysas is hardly much of a fist-fighter— until Krem slips on a bit of loose gravel and tumbles backwards into the lyrium pool.

Everyone turns at the splash, horrified; as Bull begins to race forward, hoping to save his friend, Krem suddenly appears in a flash of green light, coughing up blue-tinted water onto the ground as he drips. "Don't— don't feel right, chief," he manages, between coughs.

Merrill gapes at Krem for a moment. "That was a Fade-Step! A bad one, but— you're a _mage_? And you wear _silk_?"

Dagna, more used to chemical spills and accidents, instead rushes for their packs to get towels. "Strip quick! We need to get you cleaned up, there's a lot of shit in there you don't want on you!"

"'m fine, just—" He vomits, then, and much of the vomit is blue, glowing. He shudders when he's done, looking up, eyes searching for the Chief— and when they meet the Qunari's, they are glowing blue, pupils slit, oddly reptilian.

Marian can't move, her hand over her mouth. _I stood back and let it happen, again!_ "Is he—" _going to be alright (dying here in front of me)?_

Bull's own eyes widen and he curses softly in Arabic. "Krem, you need— everyone upstairs right the fuck now! Grim, if Lysas so much as blinks wrong, break his chaos damned jaw. Stitches, get a bath readied. Pyro, leave the towels on your way up. **Move, people**!"

As Morrigan heads for the door, grabbing for Merrill's wrist to tug her along, Marian moves forward, refusing— _refusing!_ — to not help. "He's got lyrium poisoning, or probably does. Merrill, get water from camp, I'll help get him dried off."

Dagna finishes pulling out towels, tossing them to Bull, who is currently yanking of Krem's boots. "Marian, where is te first aid kit? I have antitoxins in there," she says urgently.

"At camp, in my pack, right on top," she rattles off. "Krem, what's my name, do you remember?"

"Bahith," Krem manages, his voice strained. "Dizzy," he adds. "Dammit."

"Krem," Bull says in a soft Arabic. "You alright with Bahith staying to help clean you up?"

Krem hesitates a moment, then nods. "Not Fire," he adds, struggling to recall the right words in Arabic. It's easier for him to understand than speak, especially now, when everything hurts and he's struggling to keep his stomach settled and the room won't stop spinning. "Bahith yes."

_Yeah, picked up on that too_. "Right. Pyro, have Grim bring down that kit while Bahith and I clean Krem up," Bull orders as he gets the second boot off. "Move!" Looking a bit startled, Dagna nevertheless obeys with alacrity.

Marian helps Krem get his shirt off; she seems momentarily startled to spot the pair of scars under his pecs, but she says nothing, grabbing a towel and wiping him off roughly. "Let me know if this is too hard," she says, briskly. "I need to get this off you before it makes you worse."

"Thanks," he grunts, still struggling to catch his breath.

"Don't thank me yet— those pants have to come off," she warns. Krem nods, searching for the right words, before looking up at Bull with a plea in his eyes.

"Best brace yourself, Bahith; you might be ready for his bits but it's the thighs you need to see to believe. Man's got thighs like a kossith, it's a marvel," Bull says cheerfully as he undoes Krem's belt. He winks at the man, then adds, "I'll lift, you tug." Steps on the ramp get a glance over his shoulder. "And there's Grim. Let him do the patting down, he's lyrium resistant."

"My brother's the same way," Marian says quietly, mostly to Krem. "Thighs like an ox. No idea how we ever mistook him for a girl." She steps back, then, letting Grim and Iron Bull handle the towels. _Don't think about it._ "Do you remember where we are? What today's date is?"

Grim doesn't seem fazed at all by Krem being naked, just stoically rubs him down with silk-gloved hands. Bull wipes his own hands with a grimace. "I do not like have my hands tingle like this, not given..." He winces again, then fixes Marian with a very intense stare. "How are you handling this?"

_Don't think about it. Don't think about it_. "Fine." _Don't think about it_. "Krem, you're doing fine, just hang in there. Give me your full name?"

As he had with the previous answers, Krem mumbles his response more at Grim than Marian: "Cremisius Aclassi, but it's Krem now."

"Yeah, what I figured," Bull mumbles, grabbling a fresh towel. "Hands," he orders Marian.

She offers her hands, thrusting them toward him and glancing away to prevent herself from acting on the overwhelming urge to lick her fingers. "...the waves are wrong," she mutters, staring at the pool.

"Wrong?" Bull asks as he works, more to keep her talking and focused on something other than the lyrium laced stuff on her hands.

"They're not moving right. It's— are they in slow motion?" she asks, blinking a few times.

"Uhh, that doesn't seem..." Bull looks past Marian. "Huh. That is weird. Sure it's not just... goopy?"

"Might be," she mentions, and without thinking, reaches out her hand, intending to dip her fingers in and feel the viscosity.

Only to find herself lifted up and back by her belt. "Bad mage, no druggie water," Bull says mildly. "And eat something, you're a light as Daisy," he adds, sounding like nothing more than a fussy mother.

"I'm on a diet," she says without thinking. "Sorry, sorry, I just wanted to check the viscosity. When I filled the canteen, it didn't seem that thick."

"How about we poke it with a stick, yeah? Because it's poison?" Bull seems about to continue, when Grim grunts softly. "What?" the qunari asks, already striding back to Krem, though as he never let go of Marian, she's along for the ride!

Grim grunts again, then points at Krem's pelvis. There's a towel over his bits, but that doesn't hide the gleam of—

"Scales?!" squeaks Marian, clamping her hand over her mouth in mortification at her outburst. "Holy shit, what's _in_ that stuff?" _And I almost fed it to Merrill?!_

"Holy shit, Krem, you have dragon scales! That's so _cool_!" Bull coughs sharply, his voice returning to his normal bass timbre, also remembering to set poor Marian on her feet. "Uh, sorry. Right. Bahith, you know how to use that test kit thing Pyro had?"

"Uh. Yeah. Yeah, I can— Krem?" She peers at his face as the man's eyes flutter closed, as he slumps against Grim. "Krem! Wake up," she snaps, in his ear.

"Shit, shit, shit— what can we do? What— should we get Daisy?" _She's our best healer and she's not really— Not again, not Krem. Please not Krem._

"Let's get some antitoxin in him," says Marian, her voice crisp, professional. She snatches the kit from Bull, kneels down, and gets to work.

Krem doesn't regain consciousness, but an hour later, Marian declares him stable— "or as stable as I can make him." _His color is improving, though he's still too pale given how brown he normally looks, and his breathing is steady, even, though he remains asleep._

"We have any idea what—- what that shit is?" Bull asks quietly, eyes locked on Krem's face. "How did he teleport out of there? Or grow scales? His eyes? Any of it?"

"It has Lyrium in it, and something else. I—" Marian winces, then. "With your permission, I want to try something a little weird." She flips out her pocket knife, picking up Krem's limp hand.

"Bleeding? Bit old fashioned, isn't it?" Bull asks blandly, watching her carefully.

"Not that. I— I guess I'm a medium? I'm sensitive to lyrium, as you've noticed. I want to taste his blood, now that we have antitoxin in it to help take the edge off the lyrium poisoning."

"That seems... dangerous," Bull says bluntly. "For you. I want Daisy on hand, just in case you have a bad reaction. Grim?" The man grunts, heading upstairs at a brisk jog.

"I'll be fine, Bull," she says gently. "But I want to see if there's any real power in his blood. If he's really a mage or if that was some kind of effect the pool cast on him."

"That does sound reasonable," Bull allows. "But you dying won't help Krem so— That was fast," he says, seeing Merrill dashing down the ramp.

"Grim pointed at me, then down here, then grunted in a worried sort of grunt way," the elf says rapidly. "Is Krem alright? What's going on?"

"Merrill," says Marian, with a small smile. "It's alright. He's sleeping. I want to taste his blood, see if it's got power to it."

Merrill blinks a few times. "Or I could just cast a spell to test it?"

"...you have a spell to tell if he's a mage?" Marian blinks. "That's... handy." _And why am I disappointed?_

"Yes?" Merrill stares at her, a little off balance. "Don't you? It's not an uncommon spell, it just detects the degree of connection to the Fade. Some people claim you can tell how powerful a mage is but that's hogclean. None, some and a lot is really all you can get from it."

"No, I— I know there is such a thing, it was cast on me as a child, but— no, I don't have it."

"Oh. Well, I can teach it to you." Merrill pauses. "So you don't have to drink blood or feed your addiction to find out in the future."

She flinches. "It's not— I don't— I don't _think_ that's why but— thanks."

"We don't doubt you're trying to help Krem," Bull rumbles softly. "But you considered that angle."

"So, what, this is an intervention?" she jokes, with a weak smile.

"What's an inter—"

"Yeah, pretty much. Little impromptu, sure, but this is entirely your friends confronting you directly about a problem that's worrying us," Bull cuts in, Merrill nodding as she clues in.

Her smile fades. "Well, sure, I'm not thinking the clearest, but this is— this is one time," she protests.

Merrill, looking guilty, reaches out to pull Marian into a hug. "I'm sorry."

Marian pulls back, frowning. "Seriously, it's not— it's not a problem. I'm handling it. Right?" She looks to Bull. "Right?"

"You tried to stick your hand in the pool, tried to drink Krem's blood and had to fight to not lick your fingers clean," Bull says quietly. "You haven't yet, but you've coming real close to it pretty often."

Marian bites her lower lip, looking down at her hands. "Well, of course, but the pool is... it's really tempting, it's not— it's not like normal lyrium."

"Not..." Merrill frowns, actually focusing on the pool. "I was so caught up in the mirror but... hmmm." Moving closer, she kneels a few feet from the edge, then leans in a little. "Oh wow. Woahhh. Wait."

"You see? It doesn't flow right, and it— the song is— it's more—" She shakes her head, trying to get the rest of the room's noises to shut up so she can listen. "Louder. Sweeter. Deeper. More insistent. What is that?"

"Umm. Ummm. Ummm." Merrill scrambles back from the pool, eyes nearly bugging out. "Friendly Blight?" she blurts out once she's a good two or three yards away.

" _What_?!" Marian screeches.

"Say fuck _what_?" Bull demands a split second after her.

Merrill nods to both of them. "I— the mirror, when I first— My tribe found it while following some shem trespassers. And they were shem, not humans. They were trying to steal from our heritage and they attacked— doesn't matter. The mirror was tainted, it killed the trespassers, Blighted them. I know what the Blight feels like, even when it's weak and un— untied to an Archdemon." She shudders deeply, her rambling not slowing at all as she remembers watching the Elders try and fail to heal the shem. Watching them finally burn the twisted, mutated monsters they'd devolved into with chemical fire. "And that's— it's _not_ Blight. There's no malice in it, no hunger and it's less and more. But it's close. It feels, umm, it feels like— Like the difference between self-made blood magic and blood magic taken from a victim." She shudders more, looking ill. "It's blood and lyrium and Blight but none of those things, all mixed together and made more and other and—"

Marian's head turns slowly back to the pool, and almost unthinking, she crawls forward, toward it. _I have to study it_ , she tells herself. _I have to know!_

Bull grabs her by the belt again. "What of any of that sounded like 'touch me dumbfuck, it'll be great?'"

"It's _power_ ," she whispers. "It's fame. It's the ability to never be hurt again."

"I'm pretty sure it would melt your veins shortly after you go insane," Merrill offers, shuddering. "Krem isn't a mage, it has less to work with."

"It tried to turn him into a _dragon_. I have to _try_. If I just drink some, if I'm not dunked in it—"

"Nope," Bull says firmly. "You're going upstairs, away from drug song and temptation. And don't try coming back down here without me, understood?"

"I'll let you have some," she whines. "Think of it, Bull. A _dragon_."

"Melty, insane dragon," Merrill clarifies.

"That is less cool," Bull points out.

"I'll just take a tiny sip. To test it."

Merrill sighs a little, then kneels down so her face is right in front of Marian's. "Sweetie, look at me. _Enough_."

Marian looks up at Merrill, the desperation in her eyes slowly ebbing. "I... I'm sorry," she says, quietly, lowering her gaze again. "I just— I just want to go home."

"I know. We'll figure out the mirror and we'll all go home. As legends and sages, the explorers who discovered the single greatest find in the history of the world," Merrill says softly, kissing her girlfriend on the lips ever so gently. She pauses as she pulls away, looking perplexed. "Are we dating? Like girlfriend dating? I mean, we agreed to go on a date when we go back, then we almost fucked yesterday but..."

"Yes," says Marian, just to have made a decision. _Either of us could die, easily, today or tomorrow. We're dating._

Merrill beams at her with a goofy smile. "Good. Then I'm going to take my new girlfriend upstairs and kiss her lots." She pauses. "Actually, better plan. I'm going to ask my new girlfriend to go upstairs and make us a little lunch date sort of thing. We can have a picnic with Fluffy and the mabari watching us and make out. I need to run some tests on Krem."

"I'd appreciate that, yes," Bull says dryly. _Too many people to be worried about all at once._

_Krem._ Marian flinches, gazing down at their conjoined hands. "Yeah, please... please look after Krem for me. I'm sorry," she whispers, pulling away as she stands.

Bull lets her go, though he hovers a bit just in case. "Good. It'll ease off, eventually. And that water..." The elf shudders. "I didn't fling myself away from the pool because I _didn't_ want it," she confesses in a low voice.

"I don't— yeah. I don't think I'll be spending much time down here," Marian admits. "How about I work on the food situation and you work on the mirror situation?"

"I'll take notes that we can work on upstairs. But I don't want to spend too much time down here either, at least not until—" She turns to Bull. "Can you cover that pit up? Wood planks or something?" He nods silently. "Good. Let's get Krem upstairs too, now that I think about it— Marian hears it best but I can hear the song too, so Krem might also."

"Okay. Bull, can you carry him? Gently?"

"Grim brought down a board we'll put on him. Go on ahead and make sure no-one gets in my way as I walk backwards," Bull says, moving over to Krem. "Merrill, walk next to us and keep an eye on him, just in case moving is bad."

As she reaches the stairs, Marian turns, giving one last, longing glance to the pool. Then she straightens her gaze, squares her shoulders, and walks up the ramp, without looking back again.

* * *

Marian lays on the rough blanket, staring up at the sky, letting her girlfriend eat the peanut butter sandwiches she made from the last of their bread supply and the peanut butter they'd grabbed from the mess hall before leaving. She looks up at the clear blue sky, her head in her girlfriend's lap, quiet, blissful. Well. A little faint. And her stomach is rumbling. But she can't bring herself to eat, not when they're still unsure about their food stores. Not yet.

"So Krem tested as magic the first time? You're sure?" He seemed normal the second time Merrill cast the spell, a half hour after the first; whatever magic it had infused him with seems to be fading.

"Yup," Merrill mumbles with her mouth full. Swallowing, she beams down at Marian, then offers the sandwich to her. "First time was 'more,' second was also 'more,' then the third was 'yes.' I suspect it was wearing off the whole time but the detection spell can't pick that degree of measurement up. But it's widely unstable. My other tests showed some serious, umm, heart beat issues? Very fast, like he was running. Too much brain activity too. Dreams, I suspect. Nightmares. The scales on his stomach aren't fading either, and they're fully attached. Best I can tell, it's replaced about half the, umm, floors? Of his skin."

"Layers, we say," says Marian, ignoring the sandwich. "Hopefully he wakes up soon. That can't be restful."

Merrill's smile shifts to a frown. "Marian... You have to eat."

"I'm fine. What if we need it later? You should eat, boost your strength. You pushed yourself too hard today."

"Because hunger is hunger. If you don't eat, it's harder not to use," Merrill says softly. "Bull's eaten dino already, the halla and Fluffy have been eating the grain just fine. Worst to worst, I have to unfreeze the herd dinos out here." She glances over at Fluffy briefly, currently a dozen yards away inspecting a frozen dinosaur nearly four times his size.

"I'm fine," she says again.

"Why?"

"Well, just, what if someone else needs it? I don't— I don't want to take food from..." _people who deserve it. People who the Maker loves._

"You're not _taking_ food, Marian. We need you healthy. I want you happy. Please?"

"I mean, it's just... you use way more magic than I do, and Bull needs the calories, and Krem's hurt and he'll need to recover, and Stitches..."

"And your brain needs fuel to help me puzzle out these runes and magics. And, you know, to live?"

"Please, I'll be fine. It's only been a couple days. I can handle a couple more, easy."

"Marian, _why_? There's no reason for this! No-one else is starving themselves, no-one else is even cutting rations at this point. One person hurting themselves isn't going to increase our odds of survival. It's making them _worse_."

She's quiet for a long moment, eyes closing. Finally, she says, "because I don't deserve it. I don't deserve to take up food when supplies are short."

_Oh Marian, how can you..._ "This is about the Sister, isn't it?" she asks softly, setting the sandwich down so she can stroke Marian's hair.

She nods, letting out a small whimper. "The Maker rejects me. All I do is take up space that should belong to those the Maker still loves."

Slowly, a few feet away, a ghostly figure fades into view: Drass, outlined in green, watching them silently, a sad expression on his face. Her hair a curtain around her face as she looks down at Marian, the elf doesn't notice. "Oh Marian, no. You know that's a lie. She was crazy, obsessed and cruel. You're a lovely person, really you are. The way you look after Pyro and everyone else, the way you light up when you're learning something, the quiet confidence you speak with when you teach, the tiny little smile, almost shy, that you have when we're just talking together."

"Then why...? Why am I falling to all my worst fears? I'm becoming a blood mage. I'm addicted to lyrium, and I never take the stuff. Next I'll be summoning demons!"

"You're learning blood magic, not becoming a blood mage. Or— that sounds daft in English. Era'benal is what we call a mage lost to blood magic. That is evil, not the use of it. Using another's life to cast is wrong, unless it is truly a gift. Even paying for it is wrong, because what price can you put on another's life? But that's not you. Anyone can fall, but you won't go easily. It's just not your way."

"I never wanted to learn. But I tried it once, and now I can't stop thinking about it. Why am I like this?" She sits up, then, and lets out a brief shriek as she spies Drass.

"What? What?" Merrill looks around, then stills at the sight of the Fade ghost. "He's... crying?"

"He's _creepy_ ," mutters Marian, raking a hand through her hair. "What on Earth?"

"Drass?" She tenses a little when the ghost slowly turns his face to stare at her. "Maybe a little creepy," she admits in a whisper. Offering a wave and a smile, she says louder, "did, umm, did you need something? Or... maybe you just wanted to pet a frozen dino?"

Drass raises his arm, his hand dangling limply at the end of it. "...he's pointing to me. Is he pointing to me?" whispers Marian.

"You're in my lap, I can't tell," Merrill hisses back.

Drass floats a little closer— then stops, suddenly, and jumps back a good ten feet, almost comically startled. He fades rapidly, then, as if fleeing something.

Marian holds up a hand, electricity crackling around it. "Merrill?" she says slowly. "Look behind us."

Merrill twists around, a barrier flaring into place around them both. She whistles as she does so, getting a series of barks in reply as the mabari exploring the pen all rush back to them— just in time, as blast of twisted black and purple energy hits the elf in the chest. Merrill crumples to the ground without even crying out as the mabari change course towards the tall grass and trees in the far back of the pen. From inside the house, Grim, on lookout, starts taking shots at a figure clinging to a tree with one claw-like foot and hand. Screeching, the figure drops into the ground cover and vanishes.

_No. No!_ Marian doesn't think; she leaps to her feet, electricity playing up and down her arms as she books it, heading after the dogs. As soon as she spies a humanoid figure she lets go, unleashing a fury of lightning at the figure. As it leaves her, the space inside her where the lightning rested fills with noise, the voices more audible than usual thanks to her fury, her lack of focus. _You are weak,_ they tell her, hissing into her subconscious. _You are filthy. You are unworthy. Just let go, and know true power._

She wastes no time answering them, just lets loose with another bolt, a third. As she reaches for more, reaches deeper, her head swims, and she drops to her knees.

_No... Merrill— I have to— I have to—_

Then she knows nothing else.

* * *

"—ton batting. Just yards and yards of it. No, that goopy stuff that does weird science magic with impacts? Non-newt stuff? That, then combat armour, the good stuff, then the cotton batting. Then a steel box behind my dresser. It's the only way to be sure." As Marian slowly surfaces, her head pounding, her body limp and cold, she wonders what The Iron Bull could possibly be so worried about protecting. "Need to learn how to make booby traps too."

A moment later, it doesn't matter; there's only one thing in the world that matters. "m'ril?" she slurs.

"Did you hear a cat?" A moment later, Bull is kneeling next to Marian.

Peering under his arm, Dagna lets out a sigh of relief. "Morning, dumbass."

"Me'ril," she slurs again. _My head is pounding, what on Earth..._

"Next cot over," Bull rumbles. "Stable. Wilds figured out the spell, pulled a counter out of that book of hers." _Which is maybe not a tome of unbridled horrors. Maybe. She can keep two pages._

Her shoulders slump, and she lets her eyelids close with relief, trying to shut out some of the light from her pounding headache.

Wiggling her way past Bull, Dagna shakes her head at Marian. "Hey guess who's the dumbass that drained her mana dry for the second time in less than a week. After not eating for two days! Yes, it's you! Dumbass! I'm going to smack you a good one, soon as you're well enough."

Her lips twitch in a faint grimace. "K."

"Not okay! Far from okay! Stop almost dying dammit!" Scowling darkly, the dwarf lifts a strange container with plastic tubing coming out. "Dino bone broth with chem piping for a straw. We're regular Robin Carousels here."

She lets out a faint groan of protest. "Head hurts. B'oth later."

"Drink or drown, my darling dumbass," Dagna declares with devilish delight. With a smile, she pushes the straw into Marian's mouth.

Marian manages a sip, then coughs on the next one, struggling— and failing— to keep her head still.

"How abouts I pull you up first?" Bull says with a wince, moving behind Marian to help lift her upright.

She winces as she's lifted. "Hurts," she whines.

"Well, over and above exhausting yourself on an empty stomach, you also clocked your heart to about two hundred beats per minute. And that was a minute or two after you hit the ground. So not a surprise," Bull informs Marian as Dagna replaces the makeshift curly straw.

"Worth it," she croaks. "Hurt Merrill."

"I'd call that romantic except I worry it has more to do with you _not_ caring about yourself," Dagna observes before shoving the straw back in Marian's mouth again. At least she's giving the poor girl moments to breath this time.

Marian sips the broth for a few moments, letting Dagna push her into drinking. Despite herself, some of the pain ebbs as she drinks; whether it's from continued attempts to swallow, or from getting fluid in her system, she can't be sure. As Dagna brings the cup away to refill it, she says softly, "Merrill said I was worth something. That I'm not... what the Sister made me out to be. And then someone hurt her. I lost it."

"...yeah, that's fair," Bull admits softly. "Daisy's got an old soul and a perceptive heart. She's right, you know."

"She's still asleep." Dagna finishes refilling her cool, new bone-cap cup with broth and brings it back over. "Morrigan's spell seems to have snapped her out of the nightmares, but she's still unconscious." _Nasty scar too, poor thing. Hopefully it fades, at least a little, as her body finishes breaking down the foreign magic._

Marian begins to nod, though she has to abort when her head spikes with pain. She sips more broth before continuing: "The Sister said... I take up resources from people who deserve it. Merrill called me out for not eating."

"Realllly wishing I'd gone with my gut and, well, gutted her," Bull grumbles darkly. "How you feeling? We have some pain meds, some vodka and some meat stew. Mostly meat and rice, with some canned veggies but it's not bad."

"My jaw aches," she admits. "My head aches. Everything aches."

"Stitches's theory is that you overloaded your nervous system with the backlash of your assault. Hence the overtaxed heart rate and the sore muscles. Kind of like having a massive seizure that skipped starting in the brain," Dagna explains. "Try and lay off the lightning magic for a few days, yeah? Not that I think you could cast a static spark right now."

"Great," she groans. "So I'm helpless." A pause, and she asks, more gently, "How is Krem?"

"Awake," Bull says with a broad grin. "Just an hour ago. Ate four bowls of stew, then passed back out. Scales are still there, eyes are still slitted, but otherwise seems to be recovering. Stitches is doing his best to run a blood toxicity test with Pyro's lab supplies right now."

Marian nods, exhausted, and sighs a bit. "Okay. I should try to eat more, then have a nap myself."

"Good plan," Dagna agrees. "Broth or stew?"

"Broth. Chewing is not a great plan right now." She gives a small smile, and adds, "Thanks, Dagna. I'm definitely filling out all 5's in your eval."

"Awww."


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone's safe. They've found shelter, they've fended off attackers, they've been hurt but they're recovering. But they lack a way home, and the food won't last forever. Can they figure out a good way to get back to Kirkwall?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: rape (dubious consent)

Over the next day or two, Marian sleeps and eats more than she'd wanted; little by little, as her mana replenishes and she gets some real rest and food, her health improves. Her mood is lifted when Merrill wakes; they've turned one of the rooms into a makeshift infirmary, but it's soon clear that all three patients are going to get better.

The meat is clearly edible; with that and the grains for the halla, they're able to keep from slaughtering any of their animals. The food situation handled, that leaves only a way home to be sorted out. And so, with tons of paper and their laptops, they get to work trying to figure out how the mirror works, how to activate it. How to fix Merrill's mirror. What the runes mean, how to translate to and from them.

* * *

Marian has some trouble focusing today, and she's not certain why. The conversation is certainly interesting; they've drifted from the runes they're studying to the amulet Morrigan possesses, the one seemingly dedicated to Mythal.

"I suspect it may work as a focus to contact Mythal," Morrigan says, a bit of excitement infusing her usually stoic voice. "If we can figure out the right ritual..."

"I had though it might; it feels too powerful, too, umm, heavy maybe? To just be a normal enchantment. But focuses have always been large statues, at least all the ones I've ever heard of before. Then again, I've certainly never heard of any of them being hacked apart; maybe they all have a gem like that one inside them. Like a heart."

"Perhaps," she says, thoughtfully. "And what better focus to contact The Mother than a motherless daughter and the heart of one mother destroyed?" She slips into Elven here, as she has become accustomed to doing when speaking to Merrill about Mythal.

"It's certainly worth a cast," Merrill allows, following suit automatically. "It is well to take breaks, so we do not grow stale by focusing solely on the mirror. I cannot imagine that Mythal would not have some wisdom to assist us."

"Do you think the Harmonic Resonance ritual would suit?" Morrigan continues.

But Marian isn't listening any longer; lost by the elven, she listens instead to something in the background, something nagging at the edges of her consciousness. _What is that murmuring?_ she wonders. _It sounds maybe like Dagna? Or— not quite Dagna. Someone. Skinner perhaps? I wonder what she's up to?_ Idly, she wanders toward the ramp down, head cocked to listen better...

Bull has strung the ramp with a string tied with bells but a shaft of light somehow hits across it just right to alert Marian before stripping over it. Past that, she sees that both the water and lyrium pools are not just covered but blocked off by thigh-high fencing. Easy enough to push out of the way, it's only logs and rocks stacked against each other, but well enough to prevent someone from falling in again on accident. Across the room, the mirror gleams in the crystalline light, the dark surface swirling with vague impressions of smoke.

Marian keeps her gaze away from the pool, focusing on the mirror. The call has been weaker; she'd been sure to take a lyrium potion to help replenish her stores, and she feels more herself now that she's been resting and eating, stronger, more resistant. _Is the sound coming from the mirror?_ she wonders, moving towards it as though in slow motion.

The smoke continues to swirl and flow inside the mirror, hinting at shapes. A tornado, a plush bed, a goblet, the Sunburst, a dog, a chair, the curve of a woman's bent figure. Halfway across the room, she suddenly realizes the noise isn't like the demanding, crystalline song of lyrium. This is more like someone humming a soft, gentle melody. It's comforting, relaxing. The faintly metallic smell of the hotsprings fades away, replaced by the smell of fresh bread, distant woodsmoke and ozone.

Marian's eyes drift closed, and she inhales, wrapping herself in the soothing, comforting scent of fresh baked bread. _I haven't smelled bread like that since I left home; Auntie Noella used to bake like that, when I was little. Before Mother fired her and replaced her with Chef Micheal._

As her eyes flutter close, the smell continues to shift, the ozone and smoke fading and the bread being joined by the crisp scent of a new book, then a lightly floral, lightly musky scent that Marian can't quite place even though she knows she's smelled it recently. And enjoyed the experience at that. Shapes continue to form in Marian's vision, growing more detailed, more real. A sunset, a wisp of ice flowing around a hand, clear blue waters barely hiding the sleek grey form of a dolphin, a dark haired woman from her last history class in a tank top and booty shorts, a blood smeared wood axe.

Marian lets out a small, contented hum, placing her fingers gently against the cool mirror. _This is... nice. Very nice._

A hand, warm and soft, presses back against her own. The humming builds into a soft chorus, the same beautiful voice singing a half dozen cords at once as they sing about things Marian can't understand but desperately wants. The warmth of the room settles into her bones, her muscles, causing aches to fade and her blood to burn just right.

Want, she groans, her gut churning, her loins throbbing. _Want_. She feels it in the back of her throat, a low growl of possession; she feels it in her bones, a desperate need. She opens her eyes.

Deep black eyes with flecks of green in them stare into Marian's own. She sees a hint of a smile before soft lips press against hers, slim fingers twisting into her hair. The air fills with the scent of cloves and honey as the other scents fade away.

Marian kisses the woman desperately, hungrily, sinking into her soft lips with a groan, the scent of her skin blocking out all else.

The cool, firm surface of the stone floor against Marian's back twists into the feel of sunwarmed grass. Just as her lungs start to burn, the woman breaks off the kiss, only to kiss her way along Marian's neck to suckle on the pulse point on her throat. Sharp nails part Marian's shirt and gentle fingers caress the swell of her breast. The tempo of the song quickens, a steady thrum mirroring her heartbeat.

Marian groans, her hips thrusting upward. _Merrill, Merrill!_ she thinks, eyes drifting closed as she sinks into soft bliss, into the pleasure coursing through her body, into the smell of grass and summertime, into the feel of soft skin against her own.

* * *

Krem keeps up with Bull, despite his recent injuries; he always keeps up, always ready to prove himself, always eager to show he can keep pace. During Ramadan last year, he fasted along with the Iron Bull, despite not being Qunari, just to prove he could; almost fainted the first couple days, but he got into the rhythm of it, got used to the amount of stillness and prayer required during the long day to keep pace until he could break his fast in the evening. So now, hearing that Bull was planning to go exploring, he keeps up, a rifle in his hands and a machete on his back, just to prove he can.

It's a constant effort for Bull to keep himself from slowing his pace. _Krem knows my capabilities as well as I know his, and he'd not thank me a whit for coddling him right now._ Still, he takes point without a word, forcing a path that Krem can follow with less effort. "Any luck?" he calls back softly. _Small bush with red berries in clusters of about forty or so. Only Daisy and Pryo would figure out that a dragon's spice rack contains vitamin berries, then send a couple'a mercs out shopping for them._

"I'll keep you posted, Chief," says Krem, with a chuckle that hides the strain he's feeling in the abdomen. Where the scales meet the skin is chafing, rubbing itself raw; he's going to need some kind of lotion or salve, something to ease that off, but there's no sense complaining when there's nothing around to use. "In the mea—Gah! On your eight!" he snaps, turning instantly to put his back to Bull as he raises his rifle at the translucent green figure.

Bull snaps around, not to eight but instead towards two, trusting to Krem to watch that side while he foils any flanking attempts. After a moment, he glances over his shoulder. "Oh. That the fade ghost?" he asks, fighting back a shudder. _Freaky looking thing. Too much weird, freaky magic on this trip. Next job, we work for a dwarf. Maybe get to shoot a robot. Or headbutt it._

Krem pants a little, then nods. "Yeah. I didn't recognize him at first. It's just Drass." That's another thing he doesn't want to admit: all the colors look strange to his new eyes. Drass used to be similar in shade to some of the ferns he's standing in front of. Now, somehow, despite knowing Drass is green, and knowing the plants are green, they look nothing alike; he doesn't have vocabulary to explain how they're different, but the fade ghost is... realer somehow, more vibrant, totally unmistakable for a plant.

Bull slings his rifle back to a rest position, then turns to face Drass. "Well? You just here to stare at some prime beefcake or you got something to say?"

The ghost stares at him, then floats a little back, beckoning with one finger to them as he does.

Krem stares. "...You up for playing Lassie with a creepy ghost Templar today, chief?"

_Not even remotely._ "You know me, Krem. I'm always up for anything. 'sides, those berries are just as likely to be where he wanders as where we were heading, right?"

"Sure, Chief." _I won't be left behind, anyway_. "Let's go."

* * *

When Marian wakes, it's to rise to the surface of the Pool of Glory Achieved. The shimmering lyrium laced waters ripple and sing around her as she heaves herself out, her beautiful, powerful wings flaring strongly to flick off the liquid. The mirror is gone, of course, leaving the sky laid out before her in a breathtaking sunrise. The weather is perfect; cloudless and with only a hint of wind. Fitting for her very first flight, her very first day in the form she was always meant to be. Magic crackles around her, the steady thrum of it more than any ten other mages she's met. No, any twenty mages. Her scales are as thick as armour plating and reinforced with the innate magic of her nature, rending her immune to sword, gun or brand. Her claws can part any chain or door, her breath able to summon torrents of flame, scythes of wind or gouts of arctic cold. She is perfection, unstoppable.

She shakes herself dry, and with no more thought than that, leaps forward, into the air, letting her wings catch and hold her. _Perfection. Everything I could have asked for._

She does a lazy turn around her home, everything below still and quiet. There is game, she knows, if she cares to hunt, but that is all she will find below. _And why focus on the ground when the sky opens before me? (what am I missing? Something important...)_

She folds her wings, diving toward the ground, letting out a torrent of arctic air to freeze the trees below her before she snaps them open once more, flapping her way into the open skies. _What a rush! And to think I can do that whenever I want, now that I am Perfected._

_Look there, my Love. Below_. A single glance is enough to see it, the burned and devastated ruins that was once a Circle. _They tried to chain you, break you and make you lesser. But you were proof against them with our power._ She hadn't even been hurt, no matter their attempts. Rising higher into the air, she can see the jungle spreading out below her, the azure of the ocean forming a half circle on one side. Just outside the jungle, a small village toils under the sun, catching fish and weaving fine tapestries of her triumphs. _Lesser beings but they serve you, as they should._

_Serve?_ Marian asks the other voice in her head. _No. I don't want slaves. I just want to be free. Let them all go. (what is it what am I missing?)_

_Not slaves_ , her companion, her trusted advisor and guide agrees. _Your are their Lady, protecting those who cannot protect themselves in exchange for taking care of the more tedious aspects of life. There is no need for a genius to squander valuable moments on fishing, not when you could be creating yet more marvels. Even the many centuries of life that lay before you have their end._

_And I like to create things. Wonders. I create miracles and share them with the people. They live better lives because of me._ This feels more right, more solid; she puts her worry about the missing thing _(what's missing so important)_ aside, focuses on surveying her domain. _One day my offspring will do the same._

_Offspring? Yes, of course._ A blur to her right becomes a mountain range, soaring peaks and imposing cliffs. Imposing to the groundbound races that is. _Perhaps it is time to explore the caves within? Who knows what interesting sights might be seen below? Dazzling jewels, caverns filled with unknown creatures, perhaps even lyrium?_

_Lyrium? Why do I need lyrium? I'm already more powerful than any being who ever lived. Really, spirit, you're so naive sometimes._ It's thought with a fond chuckle; spirits are interesting and fun, not something to be feared, not for her. Not anymore.

_There is always a use for more power, my Love. Always. You are mightier than any, of course, but even so, it takes an effort to stave off your foes. With more power, such could become a trivial thing instead._ A ripple of warmth flows through her body, the spirit's way of laughing. _And if nothing else, is not lyrium's song so very pretty?_

_Pretty.. yes. I could compose a symphony of lyrium, something only one such as I could hear. I could attract such a mate then, such a wonderful—_

Marian starts, almost falling out of the sky. _Merill! I've forgotten Merrill! I have to go back for her. Why did I do this? Why did I choose this form? This is wrong, I meant to be with her, to date her and love her— how can she love me like this?_

_Shhh, shhh. There's no need to fret, my Love. You are Perfection, you have no need to trouble yourself over a mate. Such things are beneath you. Come, let us explore the mountain._

_No! I am not that arrogant. I am not Perfection. I am only myself, now and always. And I will not abandon those I love! Merrill. Iron Bull. My idiot brother. Dagna. They need me, and I need them._ She dives again, aiming for the house, hoping to find her people within. _Whatever I am now, they will accept me. It is you I do not need, spirit!_

A great wave of warmth ripples through Marian, this one almost crossing the line into real heat. _Of course you need me. Without me, you would be just a dragon. Powerful, yes. Massive, yes. Wings and fangs you would have, but no speech, no magic. You would wither without me. But it's okay, my Love. We are one, and I shall never leave you._

_I was myself before you, and I will be myself after._ Marian folds her wings, letting her momentum carry her toward the solid obsidian below. _I do not need you!_

The ground comes at her fast, too fast. _Three times I deny you. Leave me, or we both perish together._

There is no answer. There is only darkness, sudden pain. Then nothing.

* * *

Krem pushes aside another plant, keenly aware how much harder it is to lead through the frozen underbrush— and yet, his enhanced eyes more easily pick out Drass's green hues against the green backdrop of plants. _I can make it a little longer before I fall back and let Bull lead,_ he tells himself, for the third time.

Drass stops moving, hovering over a rock. Krem frowns, taking a moment to rest his hands on his knees and catch his breath.

"Take five," Bull says, voice firm, as he moves past Krem. "So Ghost-Boy, where's the well? I don't—" He cuts off as he rounds the rock enough to see the bloodstain, the slight gouge in the rock. "...damn thing's still magnetic," he mutters, eying the way the zippers on his tac vest are trembling slightly.

"I'm fine," says Krem, but he stays bent over, still trying to catch his breath.

"Good, then be fine over there while you're taking five," Bull replies, watchind Drass. "No? Nothing? You're a shitty dog, Ghost Boy." Heaving a dramatic sigh, he moves closer to see if there's something near the rock, though he's very wary about an ambush. _Still got no idea what attacked Daisy and Bahith._

Nothing near it, though as he gets closer to the bloodstain, he can see something catch the light on the rock— something metal, presumably.

Bull heaves another sigh, gives Drass a dirty look, then steps up to the rock. "You're just lucky my axe's shock runes make it nonmagnetic," he mutters in arabic. _No idea how that works, but not being picked up by most metal detectors is pretty handy_. Squinting a little, he sees that the axe had caught a chain in the rock, which had embedded into the gouge. It's empty now, but after kneeling, it's not hard to find... "Your dog tags," Bull murmurs. Name, rank, serial number and Circle on one side, the Flaming Sword of the Templar on the other.

Drass bobs a little up and down, almost a full-body nod.

"Do we... need to bury them? Or... send them home? What do Templar do?" asks Krem, quietly, respectfully. It's easy to forget he'd been military at one point, since he got out so young, but he's seen enough casualties of war to understand respecting the dead.

Bull purses his lips. "Fuck if I know. Pyro might. If not her, then Bahith." _Wait, what was that?_

"Okay. Lets take them back, then. We'll ask." Krem puts his hand over his heart as he straightens, nodding. Seeing Bull frowning as his hand inches towards his axe, Krem goes on alert as well. Soft trills echo around them, undercut by a low growl.

* * *

Strong, slim hands tug gently on Marian's waist as the belt around her robes is tightened. "Ready for your big day?" Merrill asks softly as she moves around to face her fiance. "It's been a long time coming, but it's finally here." Normally Marian would have her attendants dress her, but Merrill had claimed the honor of dressing her soon to be wife for her investiture as the first female Black Divine since the creation of the office.

"Yes," she purrs, her eyes half closing. "I'm so glad the Maker chose me to be his second Bride," she adds, reaching up to adjust her tiara. "I'm looking forward to reforming the Church."

"There's no-one else that I would trust to do it right," Merrill says with a smile. "Oh! I almost forgot, your siblings arrived safely last night. Krem picked them up. Bull was supposed to but he and Pyro got, hmmm, distracted. Your hen party is going to _interesting_." She giggles slightly, then steps back. "You're a wonder, my Love, and it shows."

"I always knew I would be," she purrs, then giggles. "I'm just glad they came to their senses and decided to convert. Andraste was... She was a product of her time, but she didn't have the foresight to envision what her words would mean. I'll do better. I'll make a Church the whole world can get behind. One that doesn't oppress anyone."

"Shame about your mother but at least you have some of your family," Merrill agrees. "Ready?" The walk to the throne room seems a blur, and it feels like no time at all before she's there, standing before the Sunburst Throne. Hewn from a solid block of obsidian and embellished with the purest silver possible, the throne lays empty, though surrounded by the most influential Grand Clerics of Tevinter.

The investiture ceremony is incredible, the details unimportant. Marian recalls seeing her siblings in the crowd. Garrett, face worn but with new hope in his eyes as his fear of Templar is removed. Beth and Carver, next to each other as always, beaming at her with utmost pride. Dagna and Morrigan are there, along with the other two doctors whose names she can't recall that sat on the review board for her first— but not last— doctorate. Bull and his Chargers aren't in the crowd, but instead surround her in full gear as her honor guard, her most trusted defenders.

Marian sits upon the throne— _the throne, the Sunburst Throne, the most powerful woman in the world_ — and surveys her court, feeling peace come over her at last. _I've done it. I'm safe now. My family are safe. The world is safer because of me. I can rest._

The ceremony finishes and a party begins. She dances with Merrill first, of course, then countless others between conversations of varying topics. Her time is desired by everyone, her words listened to and respected, just as she's always deserved. It had taken far too long for people to give her her due, but by the Maker, she has it now. Later, after the banquet, she's at a table with several of the Grand clerics. "And of course, the levies will be put into place tomorrow morning," one of them says after his peer had finished complimenting one of Marian's new reforms.

"Of course," she says, with a benevolent smile. _This is great. Who could have imagined I would rub elbows with the Grand Clerics?_

"Thankfully the proceeds from your anti-disease potions will easily cover at least the first few years of the March, so we can get away with only minor, incremental increases in taxes," another Cleric says with a nod. Leaning in, she smiles warmly at Marian. "Especially with your medical runes making casualties so much easier and cheaper to take care of. Those alone will give us an near insurmountable advantage against the heretics."

Marian begins to nod, a smile on her face, but stops halfway through. "I'm sorry— casualties? March?"

The Clerics exchange glances, then the woman who'd just spoken clears her throat. "Our troops are the finest in the world and the wonders you and your followers have given us make us mightier than ever, but they are not you, my Divine. Some losses are inevitable, I'm afraid."

"No, no. There's no reason to— to invade anyone with military might. They will see our example, that we have the best society in the known world, and will beg for our guidance." Marian shakes her head, forcing her benevolent smile back onto her face.

"You would leave the thousands, no, the _tens of thousands_ , of mages in the UP to suffer until the heretics finally admit to their folly? Their hubris?"

"You would slaughter thousands of the Maker's children?" she protests. "If we do, what makes us any better than them? No. This isn't what I want."

"Divine Gloria, they are _heretics_. Murderers, rapists and worse. Every day they live darkens the world a bit more. An Exalted March is a terrible thing, yes, of course." Another Cleric takes over smoothly, forcing Marian to shift her attention. "But just like lancing a boil, the sharp pain of the moment will lead to better health in the long run. Think of what they tried to do to you. Think of what they tried to do to your brother. Your mate."

Behind the Cleric, Marian can see Merrill sharing a dance with her twin next to Dagna and Carver doing the same. They seem happy, laughing at some comment from an observing Beth. "How many others weren't as lucky as to have been saved?"

"And yet, they spoke of me as though I were a murderer, a blood mage, a heretic. Filthy, unworthy even of food, of air. I will not treat anyone as such, not ever again."

She stands, taking her crown from her head and contemplating it. "Perhaps that is what I have been sent here to teach: that power, seeing other people as beasts, is the problem. This is wrong, all of this: exalted marches, sitting on a throne in judgement, as though I were better than other mages. As if I were special."

"You _are_ special, Divine Gloria," several of the Clerics protest as one. "You are the Divine, the True Bride of the Maker. Chosen from all His children to protect those whom his False Bride's words caused to be harmed. They need you, my Divine. They need your strength, your rulership," the woman says passionately. "Please, do not abandon us." _Not like you did your family. Your brother, tortured, almost Tranquiled. Your father, burned alive by Templar. Your mate, beaten and nearly raped. Surely you don't want them to suffer more?_

"No," she says, shaking her head. "They need protection, but at what cost? I will not be a second False Bride. I will not turn my back on half the Maker's children to protect the other half. There has to be a better way than this. There has to." She shakes her head again. "This is wrong. All of this is wrong. How did I get here without thinking this through? No. I reject this."

"So that's it?" the cleric demands, tears in her eyes. "All the work and sacrifices we've made to pave the way for you, tossed aside like trash? The countless believers who have given you their faith, ignored? Your family gave up their lives to follow you and for what? For you to show this— this _cowardice_ at the first test?"

"Cowardice?" she asks, tasting the word on her tongue. "It is cowardly to take the path that doesn't kill? That refuses to bring war and pain to the world? No. It is cowardly to let some _Sister_ bully me into walking a path the Maker has not put into my heart. I deny you. Leave me."

"As you command, Marian Amell," the Cleric says softly. There's a noise behind Marian, something she can't place, and when she turns to look she's—

—back in the sub basement, the pool room. Cold stone pushes Marian to rise to her knees, body aching and head fuzzy. There's a clipboard next to her filled with scribbles and notes on the dragon runes. Thankfully, the mug of instant coffee spilled on the floor hadn't stained her work. _Merrill was right, I don't take proper care of myself. So much for just closing my eyes for a bit. Weird dreams... Must be the lyrium pool._

She swallows, taking a deep breath as she shakes her head. _Need to focus. Get more coffee_. She pushes herself up to her feet, grabbing the mug as she does.

As she does so, her foot hits the clipboard, sending it skidding across the room away from the light runes. _This day... This month rather, I guess. Nothing but failure after failure. Dragging everyone down._

_Nothing new, right? Still, that dream..._ something nags at her about it. It felt so real. Too real. _Something about it..._

_Was she right? Waste of food, she said. I know Merrill and Bull said she's wrong but... Damn, no, have to shake it off. Where did that— ah, there it is._ Walking over after the clipboard, she stills at the sound of a scuffing noise coming from the back of the room, in the darkened area under the back of the steps.

"Bull?" she calls, quietly, heart pounding in her chest. "Merrill? Is that one of you?"

Another noise, this time behind her, causes the human to whirl around to face— nothing? Heart pounding, Marian shakes her head and starts back for the ramp just in time to see a face twisted in hatred and a Sunburst symbol lunging at her.

* * *

Merrill lets out a loud whoop, then spins around in a circle before grabbing Morrigan's hands to pull her into her victory dance. "We did it! We just cast a _dragon_ spell! A really, really simple, dumb one but we just cast the first dragon spell in sixty plus _million_ years!"

Morrigan throws her head back, laughing to the ceiling. "Ha! And they said I'd never be as great as my mother!"

Stepping in for a tight but quick hug— she's over excited but still realizes Morrigan isn't much for touching— Merrill does another spin. "Oh Dirthamen, I thank you for giving up one of your secrets," she says with both a delighted laugh and sincere reverence. "This is just amazing, I can't—" She breaks off as the two mabari lounging on the roof with them go on alert. A few seconds later, she hears the makeshift pulley and lift the Dagna designed start creaking its way up the side of the house.

Krem comes through first, Iron Bull a moment behind him; he looks solemn, carrying something in his hands, but he seems unhurt, though winded. "Afternoon," he says casually, his laid back bearing in contrast to Bull's more eager stride.

As the lift pulls level with the rampart, the rest of the occupants flood onto the firm stone, clearly not having enjoyed the experience. Merrill stares a moment. "Nymeria?" she blurts out, then shakes her head. "Lizard chickens?"

Bull laughs, enjoying her stunned reaction. "Yeah, she was still hanging around where she got separated from you and Bahith. And evidently she made some friends; I think she's their boss now. They stood down when she barked at them anyway."

"Not sure where she got them," admits Krem. "But I guess Mabari are like Border Collies, rounding up animals and bringing them home to roost."

The mabari gives Krem an affronted look, then comes to attention when Merrill approaches. She sniffs at the elf carefully, then wags her tail once she determines Merrill doesn't have the same _wrong_ smell Drass did. Cooing, Merrill kneels down to fuss over the mabari. The small dinosaurs creep over to her, curious about this new development. "Does anyone know what they're called?" Merrill asks curiously as she offers a hand for one to inspect after checking with Nymeria. The mabari gives the half-dozen dinosaurs a soft growl, clearly a command, but seems to approve of her peoples intermingling with her pack.

"I believe those are _velociraptor_ , though I am not certain," suggests Morrigan.

"What? But they're oversized chickens! I thought velociraptors were like bipedal horse sized," Bull protests. "These are cute."

"The film you are thinking of was not an accurate representation of dinosaurs," Morrigan points out. "For one thing, it was filmed before we realized they were feathered."

Bull gives the dinosaurs a flat stare. "I have been _lied_ to," he declares indignantly. "What're you up to anyway?"

Merrill lights up. "We cast dragon magic!"

"Only a minor illumination spell," adds Morrigan, "but we managed to decode enough of the runes to achieve such a thing. Using Miss Amell's suggestion of—" Morrigan frowns, then, looking around, realizing who she hasn't heard from in a bit.

"She with Pyro?" Bull asks, eyes narrowing.

Paling, Merrill glances around. "Umm. I... I don't know? She didn't say anything, I think..."

Morrigan shakes her head. "No, she was definitely here when we began, but I don't— she wasn't present by the time you suggested we cast. I haven't heard her say anything in at least that long."

"Maybe we should just go find her, yeah?" Bull says, a hint of urgency in his voice.

"Agreed. I will check the meat locker where Dagna is performing her experiments."

"Good. Daisy, you hold here with the newcomers in case she comes back and—" Bull cuts off, glancing upwards at a sudden shadow passing over them. "What was that? Too fast for a cloud..."

"...Perhaps we should all go back inside," says Morrigan, rather than hazard a guess.

"You all go down, I'll check the nest area real fast," Bull says quickly. "Feed the new arrivals or something," he adds, already hustling over the tunnel.

Krem nods, heading for the tunnel as well. "On it." _And I hope she's alright._

* * *

Marian darts back out of range of Sister Petrice's lunge, her heart pounding in her chest like a jackhammer. _The dream. It felt so real— the touching, the sex. Did she touch me? While I slept?_ She doesn't want to believe it, but her panties are damp. Could be from the dream. But it could be something else.

She takes another step back, struggling to breathe evenly. _This can't be happening. She left!_

"How could I leave a wayward soul such as you to rot and fester in the world?" Sister Petrice says sweetly, circling around Marian. Her eyes burn with zealous passion and her chest heaves with excitement. And more than excitement, based on the front of her silk robes. The room is hot enough it's certainly not temperature causing the peaks.

"No, you can't— you can't be here," she says, swallowing. "Bull!" she screams, hoping to alert him to her predicament.

"They can't hear you," she says in a singsong, giggling as she continues to circle Marian around and around. "The Maker is clever, the Maker is patient, the Maker. Is. Absolute. First the elf— you didn't really think you could break my spell, did you? No, just delayed it long enough she went unguarded. And then..." She giggles. "Boom! Pity she was so close to those annoying guards of yours. I had such interesting plans for them you see."

The blood drains from Marian's face. "No," she whispers, horrified. _Merrill.. is dead? She can't be dead. She was fine just this morning! I— I failed her. Just like I fail everyone else._

"Yes," Petrice says simply, then rushes at Marian without warning. She leaps at the mage, knocking her onto her back with a bone-rattling thump. "And now you're alllll mine. My own little pet. Such a pretty birdie you'll make for me. My little bird, all locked in a cage. Sing me something sweet, little bird."

"No, no, please, no, I can't— don't do this, please," she begs, trying to scramble backward, away from her. It's futile and she knows it; she manages to slide a few inches before the sister pins her wrists to the ground.

"You liked it well enough before," the sister whispers in Marian's ear. She licks the curve of it, moaning softly. "Shall I give you a kindness, play with you once more before I brand you, little bird?"

_No, no! I can't— I can't do this again, I can't—_ She reaches for her power, summoning the storm inside her, getting ready to take them both out.

_'But please live Marian. Please try. Kill her first, before you let them take you.'_

There's something else inside Marian, something besides electricity and magic, something else she refuses to admit. She reaches for it now, letting the rage bloom inside her breast, letting it fill her. With a shout, she flips Sister Patrice onto her back, hauls her fist back, and slams it into her face, breaking her nose with a single punch.

Still screaming, she hits the clergymember again, and again. "Fuck! You!" She rips the brand from her hand, panting, infusing mana into it until it glows like a firestarter.

Petrice screams in pain as her nose breaks, then groans and whimpers as Marian hits her further. When the mage pulls away to get the brand, she fumbles at her face with her hands. Glaring up at Marian, Petrice sneers. "You stupid bitch. Worthless cunt," she hisses. "I won't even bother touching you myself. I'll just watch as every Templar in your Circle has his turn."

_Do it. Kill her. Then it'll be over. Kill her or Tranquil her but don't you dare let her go, Marian motherfucking Hawke badass Amell_. She takes a deep breath, then another, as she looks down at Petrice's angry, snarling face.

Her human face, twisted with anger and no small amount of fear.

"I'm a lesbian, dammit," she snaps, tossing the brand aside. "And you're coming back with me to stand trial."

"Trial?" Petrice lets out a shrill laugh. "You think they'll trust some mage over a Sister? The only trial will be yours, little bird." Her bloody teeth twist into a grimace. "A blood mage who killed her own guards and lover no less."

_She'll get away with it. Worse, she'll blame me for it. I'll be Tranquiled for the murder of my own mate, my own teacher. Bull and Krem, Morrigan and the others. It'll all be blamed on me. My family will think I'm a blood mage. Unless... unless there's no-one to counter my story._

_That's not me._ Marian starts, realizing the truth. _There's someone in my head. Has been, this whole time. Who are you? A demon?_

Instead of a reply, Petrice suddenly snarls and bucks to dislodge Marian. Her other hand comes up, a handful of sickly purple and grey mana pooling into a spell.

Marian grips her shirt with her left hand, the right aiming another punch at her face. "Pony camp, three years running, bitch," she snarls. "Who are you really? You're a demon, aren't you? I'm being tempted. Come out and speak to me openly."

The brand fades out of Marian's hand like mist. Underneath her, Petrice's body goes slack and with a wave of revulsion, Marian realizes that she's just punched a wasted, emaciated and partially mutated corpse. There might be still be a heartbeat, the blood is flowing too freely to be long dead. But the eyes are glassy and vacant.

Cool arms, pale purple and perfectly shaped, wrap around Marian's chest from behind. "Temptation, hmm? Oh Little Bird, you have no idea what Tantalizing Dreams you've caught the attention of with your passion."

"You're in my head," she says, numbly. _That means you're in my mind. You're already inside me, aren't you?_

The hands caress Marian's curves and a faint sigh caresses her ear. "Mmmmh. And such a tight, pleasurable fit being inside you is proving to be. You burn so _brightly_! It's intoxicating." That last word is a purred moan, filled with ecstasy.

She doesn't look to the pool to her left, but she's aware of it; the singing never leaves her awareness, not for an instant. _Sorry, Uncle_ , she thinks, as loudly as she can manage. "Alright, then. If you're already inside me, there's nothing for it. I may as well let you all the way in. You've won."

"Awwww. After all this struggling, you fold so easily?" Tantalizing Dreams sounds honestly disappointed. "Where's the fun in that?" She hums softly, nuzzling along Marian's neck. "Perhaps you just need a little taste to get that fire back," she murmurs, sending a wave of raw desire into Marian's body. The mage had resisted her temptations, but not completely, not strongly enough to force her out entirely.

Marian arches her back, gasping with the pleasure of it. "B-be gentle," she whispers, a strained coo. "I'm a v-virgin."

"Not for an hour now," Tantalizing Dreams replies with a soft laugh. "Remember?" The hands vanish and suddenly there's a purple skinned woman with curved horns standing directly in front of Marian. "But if you're not going to be any fun, I might as well get to it, I suppose." The demon lashes out, gripping Marian by the throat and forces a long forked tongue into her mouth. It pushes in, deeper and deeper, down her throat until it pours into every nook and cranny of her soul.

Marian lets out a gasp, shuddering as she feels the demon climbing into her body, down into her soul. _And now to send her back to the fade— the old-fashioned way._

She hears the footsteps rushing down the steps, but it's too late; by the time Bull reaches the basement, there's nothing but a withered corpse and that damn pool again, freshly uncovered, the surface rippling gently.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tormented by a desire demon, Marian sacrificed herself to save Merrill and the rest of the group. Now they'll have to make do without her, finding ways to survive and hopefully a way to get back home.

Krem limps the length of the tunnel the mages have dug under the base, his mind a hotbed of activity. His hand goes to the pouch at his hip once more, as if checking that the precious cargo within is still intact, unharmed. _At least I got these._

Krem's mind is primarily occupied with math— and not the fun kind of math, either. _Two dead. Three wounded. Chief's looking less and less steady by the day. Pushing himself too hard. Stitches is still hurt, Grim's got that fever brewing, and now Dalish took a nasty blow to the head. I can't pull the mages off their research or we'll never get home. So that leaves me, the chief, and Skinner, unless I pull Dagna and Lysas off the mirror and give them shifts. No two ways about it, really._

Food hasn't been an issue; there's more meat stored in the meat locker than the party can eat. But Merrill can't digest it, and neither can Dalish or Skinner. With the human supplies running low, the tunnel had been a lifesaver; today's raid of berry bushes would help bolster their grain-based diet with some much-needed vitamins. The monster on the roof had killed two of the halla, but the rest they'd herded into the tunnel; they weren't looking the healthiest, but better than to abandon them to the army of demons camped around the building.

_We have to get out of here soon._ Krem takes a deep breath, putting more weight on his bad ankle before reversing that decision with a hiss. _Chief won't like that. I'd better wrap it before I get back, see if I can avoid him until I decide if it's a sprain or just rolled. Better not to worry him for no reason._ He slumps against the oddly-square earthen walls, glad yet again that Morrigan had a spell for moving large amounts of earth. _If we had all four mages, would we be out of here yet? No, better not to dwell on it._

He slides his boot off, fishing a length of bandage out of his pack as well as a sturdy-looking twig he'd broken off to help splint the thing on his way in.

"Sooooo... On a scale of one to ten thousand, guess how pissed Big Bull is about you doing this little outing by your lonesome?" Dagna's normal perky, upbeat voice is a shadow of itself, the constant danger, hardship and heartache grinding her down. Still, she tries. The dwarf is no soldier but she reads enough to know that morale is vital in situations like these and, well, it's one of the few ways she can help. Sure, she can help a bit with the translations of the runes, act as a sounding board for ideas, but something about the dragon magic seems to be outside her reach. Some angle of the way of thinking, some vital concept, is just impossible for her. The fact that Bull seems to grasp the feel of dragon magic better than her, despite his unease with magic, is deeply frustrating.

"Bout an eleven," he replies, tired enough that the scale she said didn't quite register. "I got the berries." He wraps faster, tucking the splint into his sock before tying off the bandage and standing again. _Good enough._

"Idiot," Dagna says, shaking her head. "Here, let me carry that and lean on me."

Krem hands over the satchel, but he doesn't take Dagna up on the offer to lean. Instead he practices walking as upright as possible, putting more weight on his left foot than the damaged right ankle: a bit of a skipping gait, really, but not a full-on limp.

"Practicing your 'I'm not hurt, boss, really' act?" Dagna asks as they exit the tunnel into the ground level of the tower. "He's guarding the roof door, by the way." _And damn lucky we all are that Morrigan (wish I could have helped) managed to figure out the door controls. And that those thing don't seem to be able to. At least not yet, who knows when the smarter sort will show up._

"Good, thanks," grunts Krem. "How's Grim doing? Any better?"

Dagna winces a little. "It's hard to tell really. His fever is slowly coming down, but it's not easy to diagnose without any feedback. Stitches is a medic, not a doctor and biology isn't my strong suit." She hesitates. "Do you... Do you know why he won't talk? His tongue and throat seem fine, but..."

"He never does," Krem re-assures her. "Something to do with being Tranquil."

Dagna stumbles slightly. "Sorry, what?"

Krem glances at Dagna out of the side of his eye. "He's Tranquil," he confirms. "We think they fucked up his head when they did it. He's dependable and solid, but a bit passive, and he doesn't talk."

Dagna blinks, shaking her head. "Damn. I had no idea," she admits. "He doesn't have the brand, so it just never occurred to me that maybe that's why he's, uh, a bit different."

"They put it a bit high up, it's under his hair." Krem shrugs.

_He does have a rather low hairline. And that would explain why there's side effects (I know the placement is important, if not the why)._ "Huh. Got all kinds in the Chargers. Dales elf, city elf, kossith, Tevinter, dw— ummm. Andrastian, and a Tranquil. Very 'tour of the world.'"

"Yeah," sighs Krem. "Right now I'm just focused on getting us all out of here safely. Though I guess we have an opening if you ever want to join up," he points out.

"I think I've hit my decade limit for adventure," Dagna admits with a weak smile. "But if you ever find something neat or want some science done, call me. Sure as hell going to look you guys up if I'm ever dumb enough to go on another expedition."

"Agreed." He nods. "Go tell the Chief I completed my mission. I'm going to grab some lunch before I face him myself."

"Yeah, wise choice," Dagna says with a laugh. "I'll let him know, then make up a tray to bring down to the mirror." Giving a nod in way of goodbye, the dwarf heads off to inform Bull. Afterwards, she gets some meat and drinks from the chiller room.

She never once allows herself to so much as glance at the two shapes in the corner covered with burlap.

* * *

If Morrigan felt herself capable of working 24/7, she would; alas, she knows well her limits, and she requires breaks for food, sleep, and to recharge her weary mind. So, as Merrill foolishly pushes on with the translation well past the point where they should stop, Morrigan flips through her grimoire, letting her mind rest by working on something less critical. After all, the best ideas come from understanding something else, something related but different.

"This ritual," she muses, frowning, as she skims over the text. "This is what my mother was planning."

Merrill doesn't react for a full ten seconds, her mind needing the time to realize she'd heard spoken words. She turns to look at Morrigan, eyes glassy and she says something in a stilted, haughty sounding language that Morrigan just barely recognizes as the oldest known version of elven. The elf doesn't seem to realize what she'd done, just like she doesn't seem to have noticed three days of skipped meals, two days of skipped sleep and the way her hands tremble when she's not casting.

Morrigan tries to meet the elf halfway, to tug her out of her stupor: she repeats herself in Elven, modern Elven. "This is the ritual my mother was planning. The one that would allow her to survive past her body's death. The one that would have killed me. Are you interested in the details?" _Please say yes. It worries me that you're like this._

"Your mother," Merrill repeats slowly in the same tongue. "Killed... yes." _Morrigan is important too. I have to— have to keep working. But this is important too._ "Okay."

"This here, it would have allowed her to drink in my life force," she says, moving to show Merrill the pages, the diagram of the ritual. "But I don't think that's what she was planning. This next page, it discusses a ritual to move bodies entire, to enter a body without a soul— a corpse perhaps? Or a fetus? But here, this is the interesting part. This talks about a spirit, anchored into an amulet, and how to coax it out into the new form. I suspect she was sharing her body with a spirit, and wished to ensure the spirit made the journey safely."

Merrill stares at the pages for a moment, struggling to read the modern elvish writing. _It's too flowing, too neat. Writing is supposed to have spikes and solid lines. Isn't it?_ "Umm. Fetus. It implies— that word, it's not used for dead things. You wouldn't use it for a corpse."

"But my mother was menopausal," protests Morrigan. "So that would mean she wanted... what? For me to carry her new form? Rather than taking mine?"

"I... guess? I don't see anything about fast aging, so she'd be a baby," Merrill says, nose wrinkling. "That sounds unpleasant. Being grown but in a baby form."

"Whatever she intended, it's too late. I have no method to call her back from the Fade, wherever the dead journey." She frowns, tracing some of the runes on the page. "But the amulet... I could perhaps speak with her spirit companion."

"You said before you can't recall her being without the amulet, right?" Merrill frowns, resting a hand on the table as her head swims a little. "So, umm, if she was bonded with the spirit like this says... they'd be closer than sisters or lovers. It wouldn't be your mother but..." Her eyes close as she fights back a wave of pain brought about by that thought.

Morrigan studies Merrill, then silently hands her a bowl of grain mash Dagna had brought down ten minutes prior. "Please eat," she says, simply, before going back into the conversation: "She would be. This sort of bond... it becomes difficult to determine where the spirit ends and the person begins, after a while. If this spirit and my mother were bonded for hundreds of years, she would know everything my mother did. We could recover the knowledge that was lost."

"I don't have time to..." Merrill swallows, her stomach feeling like it's twisting in place as the smell of the fresh berries crushed into the mash hits her. "While we talk," she finally allows, taking the bowl. "But that sort of bond overtakes a person. It wouldn't be you that recovered it. Not entirely." She goes silent then, shoveling food into her mouth far too rapidly.

"True," says Morrigan, softly. "Especially if I bonded the spirit. I would become... someone else. Someone... half myself, half my mother. But would that truly be so terrible?"

Merrill shrugs a little, cheeks bulging. She swallows twice, them mumbles thickly, "forever. Think long."

"Wise. I do not plan to take action immediately. I am merely considering the implications of doing so at a later date." Morrigan takes a deep breath, then adds, "you will be of no use to Miss Amell if you do not rest. I understand you wish to get her to medical aid sooner, but it has been nearly a week, and she would be put out if you were harmed by the attempt to aid her."

Merrill winces, looking down at the half-empty bowl. "I know," she whispers. "I just— I promised her I would keep her safe from the Templar and..."

Morrigan reaches out to pat Merrill's hand, feeling self-conscious as she does. _How hard do I pat? Just the tips of my fingers, or more of the hand?_

"I am certain that, were she conscious, she would understand," she says, trying to impart what comfort she can. "Whatever happened to her was clearly more complex than any of us know."

* * *

Krem slumps against the wall, legs stretched out on his bedroll. Twelve hours in the infirmary wasn't the worst punishment, but it galls him, being useless like this. Being _benched._ The infirmary's getting full; just Skinner and the Chief left on duty, meaning the mages will have to take shifts. They'd set it up just by the ramp, near the bodies and the supplies, a place where they can be easily seen and checked on as part of the end-of-shift routine.

Damn, but the scales on his stomach itch. He keeps rubbing at the place where scales end and skin begins — an unnatural place, a place not meant to be. The edges of the scales grate against his flesh. Not something that would bench him if he hadn't hurt his ankle. _Damn and double damn. I won't be fit for duty for days, maybe weeks. Not with Stitches out. So much for that crazy Chantry woman being a healer, being able to take the load off him._

Footsteps on the ramp. He turns his head, slightly, listening. _That's the Chief. Too heavy to be anyone else._ He rests his head back against the stone, waiting for the Chief to pop in, check on their little alcove behind the boxes of supplies, and vanish again.

"Hey Sadiq," Bull's voice rumbles as he approaches Krem. "Got some lotion for your scales. Need any help with it?"

He wants to say no. He yearns to say yes. Instead, Krem just pulls his shirt off, tossing it to one side, exposing the sleek, iridescent scales, the red-raw skin.

"Not looking great," Bull remarks, his eyes traveling the length of Krem's body. "This should help." He squats beside Krem, squirting some lotion onto his fingers before gently massaging them into the scales, into the flesh. Krem lets his eyes close gently, his muscles relaxing under Bull's expert touch. _I could get used to this._

Bull's fingers travel, wandering up to Krem's chest, massaging him gently with the heels of his hand. He works carefully around Krem's nipples, and the boy groans in frustration. "You can touch if you want," he says, his voice husky, unfamiliar even to himself. _Stupid. He doesn't think of you that way. More like a son, or a little brother._

The gentle pinch of fingers on nipple proves him so very wrong. Krem's eyes snap open in surprise and delight as the Qunari gently traces circles around the now pert nipple. "I want," he says, his voice a low purr. "I want very much. You sure you're up for this?"

_What happened to no fraternizing?_ Krem wonders, but dares not say. Instead he nods, and Bull's left hand slips into his pants, gently tracing the base of his cock with one finger.

"Here goes," he rumbles, and grips Krem's cock firmly in his large, meaty hand. He begins to stroke, and Krem lets out another groan, a desperate cry for more, please, more. But something nags at him, some part of his mind that can't quite let go.

_What the hell is he grabbing at?_ it finally warns him. _There's nothing there to stroke._

Krem sits up, suddenly awake in the med area, panting with unmet need, no sign of Bull anywhere. _Dammit,_ he groans. _Always just before it gets good._

Hearing a familiar sound, he cants his head just a bit, then turns it away. _Someone else is having a dream like mine, or just did._ Chargers are used to close quarters, and sometimes that means ignoring each other's need for "alone time". _Wait, but that's not Stitches— that's Grim? I didn't think he did that sort of thing._

Still, there's nothing for it; Krem shifts, laying back down, and tries to get back to sleep. _A nap will do me good. Then I'll be back to demanding a spot on the rotation with my wits about me._

* * *

Marian holds tight to a handle, squeezing the mechanism as tightly as she can. She doesn't remember why, but it's important, so important. She has to keep holding on, keep squeezing tightly, make the stress ball in her hand as small as she can make it. She has to clench, constantly, tense, on guard. If she slips up, if she lets her control drop for an instant, she will die. She has to keep pulling the cord, cannot let it go, cannot let it rebound to its natural state of expansion. She has to keep tight grip. She has to—

She takes a deep breath, aware of her breathing.

It's not a handle or a stress ball or a cord or a— it's her mana. She's suddenly aware of that, in the same way she's aware she's dreaming. She's holding her mana in close, hiding herself, making herself small inside the sea of demon. Making the corrosion attack the demon first, herself second. Hoping against hope that if she just holds on, she can kill the demon and get free.

But it's not dead. And she's not dead. And she's so tired, so very tired. She can't hold it any longer. She's at her limit. She'll have to let go. _Wait for me, Garrett. Don't try to follow. This is my fault, not yours. Never yours._

She lets go.

A moment passes. Then another. She feels nothing. She inhales; she exhales. She inhales again. Her lungs seize up, and she coughs, violently, her lungs trying to force something out against her waking will.

"Holy shit!" Hands, small but broad, strong, pull Marian upright and over so she can clear her lungs out onto the floor instead of her face. "Skinner, get Merrill!" _Holy shit, she just fucking woke up! What the fuck? Glad there's no mirror down here._

The coughing triggers worse; before long, she vomits, thankfully onto the floor instead of all over herself or Dagna. When she finishes, her body weak, she collapses against Dagna, focusing on breathing, focusing on simply being.

_...spirit?_ she asks, hesitantly.

"Well, that was gross," Dagna says weakly, nose wrinkling at the blue-tinged, watery mush they'd been feeding her very, very carefully. _How is there still lyrium in her stomach? We stopped giving it to her days ago._ "Can you hear me? Marian?" Which she can, easily so in fact. And thankfully, she doesn't hear anything else, aside from the sound of Skinner rushing upstairs. She does feel... warm, however. And her skin feels tight, sensitive. It would be nice if Dagna didn't yearn to be helpful so much too, it's kind of annoying.

_It's gone._ But she doesn't feel relief, not really. The spirit might be gone, but at what cost? Her body feels strange. Cold inside, despite the physical warmth of her body. Distant. She struggles to think, struggles to focus on the odd sensations coursing through her where Dagna touches her body. _I'm changed. What am I? Not human, not anymore. Dying?_

_You had ***. Not after *** did to me. What did *** do? How?_

"Deep slow breaths," Dagna says softly. "Easy does it."

"Abomination," she breathes, her eyes closing. _Why did I wake at all? Why didn't— I was meant to die, and the demon be sent back to the Fade. Now I'll have to do it all over again._

_Abomination?_ The voice is filled with indignation. _I am no *** thing! That word implies something unwanted ***. I am neither._ A pause. _Your mind is confusing. What *** is there between demon and spirit? *** label to things that are the same._

"Errr, what?" the dwarf asks, not catching that.

"Kill me," whispers Marian, struggling to make herself understood, to be clear. _You are a demon. A demon of lust, of desire. No better than I deserve. I cannot be your tool, your gateway to the world. I refuse._

_I am no such thing_. The voice is clearer, more emotive. _I am Tantalizing Dreams. I seek that which cannot be known, cannot be found, for the seeking is enough. And if you wanted me gone, throwing yourself into a tool designed to bond us forever seems a poor choice._

"That... what? Why? We just spent a week keeping you alive, you daft girl," Dagna protests as the sound of someone nearly falling down the ramp in their haste reaches them.

"Desire," whispers Marian. "Abomination. Bonded. Kill me, quick," she adds, shuddering a bit. "Not safe."

"Uh, no? Merrill and Morrigan both cleared you. No demons," Dagna has time to say before Merrill is there.

"Marian," the elf cries. She looks pretty bad off herself. Heavy bags under her eyes, hair a mess, skin dull. "Gods, I thought you were— We couldn't figure out how to wake you."

_Your mate... She worries for you very strongly. I can feel her wish for you to be well very clearly. It feels nice, I think._

_No demons? A spirit? But— you were a demon. In my dreams. You enchanted me. You **raped** me._ Marian struggles to focus, her hand raising to gently brush Merrill's cheek.

_I..._ A feeling of confusion, uncertainty fills Marian. _It seemed... right to do so at the time but I do not... That is not me. Not of my nature?_

Now touching Merrill, Marian can feel it too. More than just a need for Marian to be well in fact. There's an old desire at the center of the elf, worn and somewhat hollow; a need to prove herself to her Clan, to make them look at her and see her. Almost an echo of that need is the need to understand something, something old and almost sacred to the elf. The mirror? There's a pool of warmth, a liquid desire that's banked at the moment but clearly directed at Marian and stoked just a little from her touch. Other hungers too, for food, proper food, for sleep. For rest. "Marian... you're really awake?"

"Hi," she whispers, with a worn smile. "You need to eat. Sleep, too." _You... changed?_ Marian has to admit, the being doesn't feel like a demon anymore. Something gentler, something more like the little wisps she used to summon, before she figured out how to control her magic better.

_Have I? It is hard to know. Spirits are what we are. What we were is not important because we are not that. But the things I did of late do not seem appealing. Well._ The spirit seems to consider that for a moment. _The passion and pleasure you felt was interesting. And it was fascinating to see how you reacted. But it seems poorly done to me. Journeys alone are not nearly as fulfilling as a journey with another. Breaking you would be a terrible waste._

Merrill stares, then pouts a little. "Nagging already, falon? Meanie." Despite her words, her eyes are bright and she seems far more at peace.

"I— I think— I think I need a nap," she says faintly, eyes drifting closed. _That makes sense,_ she agrees to the spirit. _If you're not dangerous (if I don't have to die) then maybe we should rest. I'm all wrung-out and noodly._

_Sleep? We're going to dream?_ The spirit sounds absolutely delighted at the idea. _Oh that's wonderful! There's so much I can show you!_

"Do you think you can eat a little first? Much easier than trickling it down your throat," Dagna says quickly.

_Tell her no. We want to dream!_

_Oh. Goodie_. "Sorry," Marian whispers. "Later?" Then she loses consciousness again, passing out in Dagna's arms.

* * *

The next time she wakes, nearly 20 hours later, she feels more herself; Morrigan brings her some broth, which she manages to keep down, and then goes to fetch The Iron Bull, who had been disappointed to realize Marian woke and he missed it.

"Damn good to see you awake, Bahith," Bull says tiredly as he walks up. His eyes have shadows just as deep as Merrill's, but he seems more focused, more confident. "Day of good news really, Grim's fever broke a few hours after you woke. And Skinner managed to find some roots that are kind of like yams mixed with coffee. Weird but tasty; Dagna made a drink out of the water we boiled them in. Bit starchy but you can pretend it's coffee." He takes a seat on a crate near her, grinning crookedly.

Marian stares, stomach plummeting, at the broken bit of horn on his head, the field dressing on his arm. "Fever?" she croaks. "What— how long was I out?"

"Uh, about eight days?" Bull says, wincing. "It's gotten... interesting." He coughs a little, then offers her a bag. "Dino jerky?"

She holds her hand out automatically, stomach growling despite the broth. "Bull, I have to tell you something," she begins, then hesitates.

"We found the body," Bull says quietly. "No fucking clue how she got down to you. Got no excuses, all I can say is that I'm sorry."

"The mirror," says Marian, unsure the answer until she speaks. "She was an abomination, indwelt by a demon. She— she ra— she hurt me," Marian says, eyes sliding away from his face for a moment while she composes herself. "Bull, the demon got inside me."

"Chaos, Marian, I'm so damn sorry you had to—" The Iron Bull's head lowers, his eyes close. "I failed to keep my promise and you faced the worst fear you have. Name your debt, I'll pay it."

Marian reaches out, putting two fingers on his arm gently. "No. It was— I heard something, and I went down to the pool. It's my own fault, for not bringing backup. If you— if you want to make it up to me— then... The spirit's still inside me." She takes a deep breath, puzzling through the complex riot of emotions in her gut.

_Peace. He wishes for peace. Such a strange thing for so fearsome a warrior. He wants forgiveness. He wants to earn it. Deserve it. Sleep and food, to rut. He finds you attractive, finds most everyone here attractive to some extent, but none as much as the male near the ramp_. A flick of eyes shows Krem watching the two discreetly. _Hmmm. And now he wishes to understand your words._

"Uh. What? Daisy and Wilds cleared you," Bull says warily, head coming back up.

"They're wrong. They— the spirit changed, somehow, in the pool. Maybe it didn't register to their spells. But... the pool was meant to bond spirits to the dragons, to make them something more. Something other than dragon, something better, smarter, more powerful. I'm— I'm that, now. Something not quite human, not anymore." She closes her eyes briefly, taking her hand off his arm. "Something dangerous."

When she opens her eyes, they glow, as she reaches for just a hint of mana, wanting to prove herself now. _Help me. Show him what we are_ , she asks the spirit, handing it the mana she pools in her imagined hand. The voices are quiet now, far away, as if on the other side of a pane of glass; she wonders at that, but only dully, under the fear and confusion.

_I don't understand what you are asking? We are this. Or... ah, you mean show him me. That I can help with. If I may?_ There's a feeling like having her hand nudged, as if someone was gently taking hold of an offered object, not pulling on it but instead waiting for the other to let go. At Marian's hesitant allowance, she feels the spirit cup the mana, then spin it into a wonder. Off to the side, an image forms.

The shape is feminine in many ways; a modest chest, smaller waist, flared hips and butt. But tall, as tall as Bull and broad in the shoulders as well. Horns curl from her head, though they seem more kossith than demonic. She has wings as well, feathered dragon wings, to match the digitigrade feet with their blunt talons. Her hands are far more human, though she has five fingers plus a thumb, all slim and quadruple jointed. Her hair reaches the floor, though it's less hair and more feathered tendrils and her body is nude save for a layer of soft, pale lavender down on her belly and inner thighs. The rest of her is covered in iridescent scales that throw back the dim lighting in a dazzling display. _Oh my. I think I'm rather pretty, aren't I? I wonder if you can grow wings. Shall we try? They're great fun._

Bull jumps a little, then stares. First at the image, then at Marian. Then back again. "...the fuck?"

"The spirit," she says quietly. "Tantalizing Dreams. Before Patrice, before— Clem? You were Clem? Before Clemence, she fed on dragons primarily. Dreamed dragon dreams, desired dragon desires."

She can't help it; a strange, fey giggle slips out of her lips at the alliteration.

_That one was empty. It was disgusting. Even when Petrice hurt him, he didn't care. His organ engorged but he didn't care. It was hurtful. Petrice was better but her desires were sharp and empty. There was no progression, just a need to own and ruin. I like you best._

"That's... neat. Krem, you mind getting the ladies? I think we need a consult," Bull calls back without looking away from Marian and the image, which has now started to revolve in place, revealing a long tail with flat rudder-like fins on each side. They're not very big, barely a half inch wide, and they taper to nothing sharply halfway up the floor-length tail.

"On it, chief," says Krem, as he moves to find the mages.

_Tranquil. He was Tranquil. I thought that made him safe from something like you; it's meant to protect him from being indwelt. That's what Patrice wanted to do to me._ "Bull. If I'm not safe to be around, I don't know that— Tanna knows how to use the mirror. Tantalizing Dreams, I mean. If we can send everyone home, I don't think I should go with them."

_Tranquil is hateful. You're not allowed to be that,_ Tantalizing Dream orders her partner.

"Yeah, not happening," Bull says. "Wait. Sorry, did you say you can use the mirror?"

_Agreed. But you seemed eager enough inside Patrice. What changed?_ "Maybe?" she offers. "Bull, I'm not human anymore. I'm— Marian Amell died in that pool. I'm something different now."

_I wouldn't have let her_ , the spirit assures Marian. _I just wanted to push you into killing her after you had beaten her. Which is silly, that's more Anger or Justice's thing. Maybe Survival? Anyway. I wanted you from the first night I saw you. Your mate was interesting as well, but I'm very happy here with you. Besides, that was all just illusion. Petrice was empty and spent after she hurt your mate. She was so bent on owning you, she stopped trying to be herself as long as she got more magic to succeed. Which is kind of silly too. Rather mean of not-me; I wonder why I didn't tell her letting me in that deeply without holding strongly enough to herself would make her not be a person anymore?_

"Well, uh, I'm not human either," Bull says stubbornly. "Nothing wrong with that. You seem... you-ish. And not murdery."

"I'm what Patrice was," she says softly. "An abomination. But the spirit's been... tamed somehow. She doesn't want me to be Tranquil, or to—" _Do you want to hurt people? Do you plan on doing anything that would damage my friends?_

_I want to discover things with you. Learn things, meet people; I was able to see flickers of things in Petrice's mind. So many things, none of them familiar! I want to see them all with you. I don't really care which ones. We can hurt people if you want, I guess? I've never hurt humans before so it would be something new at least. Just no being Tranquil. They're wrong._

"—she's not trying to get me to hurt others," concludes Marian. "But until I'm sure it's safe, I'd best stay behind. I'll follow, if it turns out to be safe. And there's food here. But..."

_If you try to be Tranquil, I'll have to fix it. I think I figured out how. It's weird_. Tanna continues to ramble excitedly, though Marian gets the impression that Tanna would gladly talk about dirt just to have the joy of having a companion to talk to. There's a brief pause as she seems to consider something. _Actually, I bet I could teach you how. Well, with me helping._

"Yeah, about that. Food's not the problem anymore," Bull says slowly, gesturing with his right hand towards the bandages.

"Did you try to punch a T-rex?" asks Marian, with a ghost of a smile that freezes on her face as the other part sinks in. "Wait. Wait, please," she says, holding up a hand to stop him. _What?! You can un-Tranquil someone?! Yes. Blanket permission, if I am ever Tranquilled, to un-Tranquil me._

_**Yes!** I knew you were the best choice! Can I teach you how to fix people now? We should fix everyone. There's one upstairs, we could fix him._ There's a strong impression of someone humming to herself as she busily plans something exciting, the impression reminding Marian of nine-year old Beth planning Baking Adventures after purloining three of Garrett's energy drinks..

"Close," Bull admits. "Undead dragon actually."

Marian stares at Bull, dawning horror and wonder crossing her face. "Bull. I can reverse Tranquility." If she heard a word he said, she doesn't show it.

"You're up again! And talk—" Merrill cuts off as she sees the still slowly revolving illusion, coming to a stand-still at the bottom of the ramp. "Ooooh."

"Wait, where did that come— Are you talking to— to her?" He gestures at the illusion. "Like a conversation talking?"

Shaking her head, Merrill continues towards the pair. "Talking to who?" she asks as she gets into conversation range. "What's the illusion of?"

"The demon," says Marian, trying to answer everyone at once. "The spirit bonded to me. It's in my head, and yes, she's talking to me. All the time, talking, I can't— it's hard to focus when you're all talking at me so fast!"

"Marian, we checked, you're not possessed by a demon. Wilds has like four spells for that and I had one she didn't," Merrill says slowly, brow furrowing, as she considers the amulet and ritual she's been discussing with the witch. "But... a spirit... a bonded spirit... Hmm. Wilds will be down soon, I think we might have a theory. How are you feeling?"

"I— I don't know, it's so— everything is— I'm not human anymore, Merrill. I'm—" She takes a deep breath, lets it out. "I think the spirit can open the mirror. Get everyone to safety. What were you starting to say, Bull? About a dragon?"

Merrill staggers, eyes wide and shocked. _Open the mirror? She can— just open the mirror? Just like that? I guess... Huh. I guess asking a demon was the right way to figure it out after all. Just had the wrong demon. Spirit? Huh._

"Uh, yeah. Undead dragon. Or demonically possessed dragon corpse, I don't really get it. It lives on the roof, in the nest tunnel. Just kinda sits there, unless something comes near, then it kills it real good. Krem said I can't fight it," he adds with a sigh. "'cause responsibilities and stuff. Sucks. Still, there's a ton of little demons and smaller undead things to kill. Not been boring, let me tell you."

"There's— what?!" _Spirit, did you do this? As Patrice, or— did you call **demons** to my **home**?!_

_Hmmm? Sorry, what, I was distracted. What about demons?_ At least it's possible for the spirit to give her some privacy. When the thought is repeated, Marian feels a shrug. _I didn't do it no, but I guess the two of us did sorta call them. Our bonding together would have been felt across the entire time spell. And a good ways into the /proper plane of existence/ as well. I imagine a lot of spirits would be interested in that. Especially the kind you seem to label demons. Rage will fell the power of it and want to kill whatever it was. Desire will want to play with it. Pride would take it as a challenge. Sloth won't care probably. Despair—_

"It's my fault," she whispers, horrified. _Nevermind that, can you open the mirror and send them all home?_

_Umm. I don't think I can fight all those demons_ , Tantalizing Dreams says slowly. _And I just got you, I don't want to lose you!_

_Not the demons, my friends. Can you get my friends home through the mirror?_

_If we stay, they'll kill us. That's bad,_ the spirit says slowly, as if to a child. _Why can't we go with them? I want to explore with you and your... Family? Your mate and the others._

_Yes, alright, but can you **do** it?_ Marian demands.

_Open the mirror? Of course. It's easy, you just have to feed mana into it the right way. Swirly on a slant, but twisty and orange._ Tantalizing Dreams hums softly, then a feeling of perplexation fills Marian. _I don't think you can slant here. That's very strange. Why did you break the world, it makes things very difficult._

_I didn't break the world_ , Marian protests. "Merrill... that thing you did, with the blood magic. Is it easy to learn?"

"Which thing?" Merrill asks weakly. "I, umm, I've been doing a lot with blood magic lately. It meshes really well with dragon magic."

_Your mate knows how to use /life imposes order on the world/? Good choice! And the world is broken, though it's good that it wasn't you. Slant only works on the real side._

"Where you taught me a ritual. Is it easy to learn how to teach someone?"

"Oh. Umm." She stares at Marian with wide eyes, looking like she's been caught stealing from a baby. "No. Very no. That's probably the most... delicate spell I know," Merril explains. "Like a lot. I have no idea how I'd go about teaching it."

"Do you have the reverse? Taking a spell out of my head?"

Merrill shakes her head mutely. "What are you trying to do? That might be easier than this."

"I need to show you something, and I can't do it with words. I need thoughts to go from my head to your head."

_Why do you need your mate to teach that? That's easy._

"It— it is?" she says, blinking. _Alright, show me._

_Okay_ , the spirit chirps happily, then frowns. _Umm. I need to be able to use your /will imposing order on the world/ again. What should I show الثور الحديدي by the way?_

_My— you mean this?_ She offers a bit more of her mana. _Also that's not— I don't know how you thought in squiggles but I need to show my mate, not Bull. I mean Merrill, not Bull._

_You mean abjad? Petrice knew, something about knowing your enemy? Isn't that his name? I thought bulls were like triceratops? But okay. Go and touch her. And it works better if they don't fight back. You can hurt them pretty badly doing that._ A pause. _I don't want to hurt her badly. She's interesting and nice. And our best bet at feeling that pleasure and passion again._

"Merrill," says Marian, firmly. "Please don't fight me. Alright? You'll get hurt if you do." Without further warning, she reaches out to lay two fingers on Merrill's throat, as though taking her pulse.

"Woah now!" Bull says, rising to his feet. "Maybe we can have a talk about what's going on here? We went from 'I'm an abomination, leave me to die' to 'trust me or I'll hurt you' real damn fast."

"No, no— _I_ won't hurt her. I'd never hurt Merrill. It's the _spirit_ that will hurt her."

"Marian, sweetie, please try and take a deep breath for me?" Merrill asks softly, not pulling away at all.

"Why, I'm not panicking, you're panicking," she says, her voice a bit tight.

"Can you slow down a little and explain what your plan is then?"

"I'm going to have the spirit teach you how to open the mirror."

"The spirit," Merrill repeats. "Can you tell me about them? Her? Him?"

"Tantalizing Dreams," she sighs. "She... I can't. I really can't explain. She's so... strange. Stranger than any spirit I've met before."

"You met spirits often?" Bull asks blandly.

_My mortal,_ Tanna grumbles, Marian getting the feeling the spirit is glowering at the far more muted than normal wisps summoned by her use of mana. _The other spirits can get their own mortal._ A pause, one filled with consideration. _The other mortals are yours, right? We get to keep them?_

"A few. Look, I—" _How do I explain? Most of our time together has been fear and rape and temptation. I don't know you at all, but... I trust you. More than I should._ "She knows how to open the mirror, but I can't put it into words. She knows how to share techniques, if I can just..."

_Why wouldn't you trust me? We're bonded,_ Tanna asks with notes of confusion and conviction both. _We're partners now, together until death and dispersal._

"Can I cast a few spells on you first?" Merrill asks gently. "Just to be sure nothing's changed?"

"Something _has_ changed. I—" She looks past Merrill, frowning at Morrigan as the woman comes down the ramp, but continues: " _I've_ changed. I'm not human anymore."

"Your eyes are purple," Merrill says slowly. "The, umm, the part that's whie normally is a softer purple and the black part is still black." She turns her head, pressing her lips against Marian's wrist. "But you're still human. Just... different in ways."

"I'm not. We've been changed, Merrill. The spirit and I both have changed. We are one, now. Bonded. Forever. It's—"

"As my mother and Mythal," says Morrigan, as she reaches the group. "Is that correct?"

"That was my theory anyway," Merrill admits. "But change doesn't mean not human. Can I cast some detection spells Marian?"

"What? Yes, of course," she says, automatically.

"Morrigan?" Merrill asks quietly before she gets started. The two finish after a minute or so, then exchange looks. "Still no demon taint, no Blight, no active mind control. But..."

"But there's a spirit. And her mana is restored, nothing like the state she was in two days ago. And... it's not... I have examined spirit healers that have bonded with spirits. This is not that. The spirit has suffused her being, welding itself to her physical form. I have seen this only once before."

"Your mother?" Bull guesses tiredly, then shrugs. "Well, fuck it. She was a cold bitch, but didn't try to kill or torture us. And Bahith seems... Well, to be honest, she seems like she got some Daisy and Pyro in her brain or something."

"Look," Marian says again. "The demons are here because of me. The least I can do is get us out of here without dying."

Merrill smiles faintly, then moves in for a hug. "Okay. Go ahead and cast. I trust you."

_Oh... this is... nice. What is this?_

_Mine_. A moment later, Marian corrects herself: _a hug. This is a hug. Go ahead and show Merrill how to open the mirror._

_We like this_ , Tantalizing Dreams agrees with a purr. _Okay, let's do the thing! I'll have to keep it fast, your body is really weak right now and I have to use /life imposes on the world/ as the primary force for this spell. Brace yourself._ Marian can feel her mana curl up, then a flood of warmer, somehow more solid, power wells up into her. It gathers for a moment, then bursts into a spell. Except it's not a spell, it's nothing so structured or precise. It's like... If a spell was a sentence made from words, this would be a burst of primal, passion-filled dancing. The spirit gently directs the magic into Merrill, who gasps softly.

"Warm," she murmurs. "And... oh. Hello?" _I can feel Marian but also... I guess that's Tantalizing Dreams? A bit long. We should give her a nickname too. Oh, it's Tanna? I like it. And there's... oooooh. That's simple! So elegant and obvious and fitting. I can't believe I didn't figure that out myself days ago. Why didn't I figure it out? I must have tried to figure out that rune sequence a hundred times, but I didn't ever think to—_ Merrill frowns, burrowing her face against Marian's neck as if to get a better glimpse of the ideas being shown to her. _There's no word for that idea. Which... might just imply that it's not as simple as it seems. Okay. Fine. Okay._

_Don't think about how it feels. Don't think about how it feels. Don't think about... oh. Oh. That's. I see, now._ And she does. A world of possibilities blossoms from that crucial knowledge, that understanding. Each blooms, opens, withers, gives life to the next; within minutes, she's contextualized the sensations, gotten her head around entire fields of study she never quite let herself consider before. Intuitively, she understands blood magic, the ways in which life force can be used as mana and the ways in which it cannot, the limits and the opportunities. She grasps the simple truth: that blood magic and mana are not an either/or dichotomy, but instead, a both/and opportunity. She understands something she cannot put into words, something ineffable about mortal existence, about the complex interactions between mortal and spirit.

Somewhere in that knowledge, she loses her fear. _I am not human_ , she knows, but now there is no shame in it, no fear. _I am something better. I am Evanuris now, one of the new Forgotten, or, one of the Forgotten reborn. Tantalizing Dreams is no mere desire demon, nothing so small and restricted. She has been freed, been restored, and I have been restored as well, made to be myself at last._

There's a wave of approval, Marian feeling it far more than Merrill. _YesYesYesYes! You are not human, I am not spirit; we are Evanuris! We are no longer Forgotten but Reborn! We are no longer alone!_ That last bit, that last word, is filled with such unbearable joy, and the release of a fading but never forgotten agony born of isolation and loneliness, that it drives both women to their knees. _We are whole!_

_We are whole._

* * *

They gather, packing their things as quickly as they can manage. As Marian walks into the room with the body of the dragon, she falls to her knees in grief, sobbing fat powerful tears. "That was me," she chokes out, onto Merrill's shoulder. "We died here. Together. And then I was alone, so alone, for so long. I'll never be alone like that again. I won't let it happen. We won't let it."

Slowly, she calms, taking comfort from her mate, shudders slowly dying off. She helps pack the sledge, refusing to enter that room again, to look upon the corpse. _We should bury him,_ she thinks, but she doesn't want to take the time, doesn't want to risk it. _I'll do it next time, when we come back for the eggs. My children._

They assemble in the basement, Marian quietly glad to see that the pool holds no call for her. It's already done what it was meant to do. There's no reason to go back in, not any longer. The mirror, on the other hand, holds a surprise: Marian stares, transfixed, at the tall, thin, muscular form before her. _My eyes are purple. And glowing. When did that happen? I look... beautiful. And deadly._

As Merrill unlocks the mirror, it flares up with a white glow; she leads the way into it, while Marian and Bull hang back, keeping an eye on the procession to make sure everyone gets through alright. That's when they hear it: an unearthly roar. "Go, go go!" shouts Marian, pushing her way between Bull and the ramp as she slaps her hand against the wall, closing the door behind Grim and Skinner.

_Neancualaekoal?_ Tanna's thoughts are sad, trembling. _I know that roar, even broken and empty as it is. That's Neancualaekoal. Oh what has been done to you, my love?_ Marian suddenly realizes who the third, smaller, dragon was: ce was the neuter to Tanna's host and the mother dragon, their companion and tie to the outside world. Just as much a part of their union as either of the two mates and just as loved. _The doors won't stop cem. Not for long. We have to go._

"Good job," Bull says crisply at nearly the same time as Tanna. "Now get!" he orders, axe in hand. "Grim, help Stitches!"

"Door won't hold cem, get in the mirror," she snaps.

Bull turns his head away from the door, just his head, and only enough to get one eye on Marian. It's glowing a dull, burning red and his lips are a snarl. "Get the fuck through that mirror or I will break your legs and throw you through," he replies, words a soft, whispered growl.

Marian opens her mouth to argue, but seeing the look in his eyes, the intensity, she backs toward the mirror. Readying the mana to close it, she steps through, just behind Grim and Stitches. _Bull, come on, come through the mirror, don't do anything stupid._

Her back is to the Fade, but it's unmistakable where she is: the air smells different, and there's a tingling in the air, an expectant hum. Behind the mirror she's staring at is the Black City, distant and floating in the air. _Come on, Bull, come on._

One Second. Three seconds. Five. Ten. _Half a minute_. Just as Krem, face pale but resolute, opens his mouth to give that dreadful order, a smoking figure falls out through the mirror. Bull rolls twice, ending up on his back. His axe is shattered, one half of it missing entirely and the other sporting two deep claw marks in the metal. His armour is pitted and actually burning in places and there's blood down the left side of his face, especially his eye. But in his other hand, he's carrying the StoneSure travel case with all their hard drives and memory cards. "Maa shaa Qun, I just bloodied a dragon!" he gasps out, laughing despite his burns and injures.

Marian slams the mirror shut, just as it begins to bulge as something tries to follow. The mirror darkens; they are safe.

"Damn you," she laughs, a bit giddy. "Thank you, I mean."

She turns around, then, looking over the group assembled: weary and bloodied, wounded and ill, they gather, a ragtag bunch of misfits. _Her_ ragtag bunch of misfits. _Mine_ , she tells Tanna, feeling the spirit agree. _Ours._

Her eyes travel upward, to the green sky, the floating islands. Before them is a statue of a dragon, snarling, mid-leap; its eyes grow green, and Marian reaches out to gently, respectfully, stroke its carved stone flank.

"Alright," she says quietly. "Alright. Let's go home."

_Marian and friends will return in Issues._


	16. After-Credits Scene

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone for sticking with me through this little adventure! This is the end of Thorns; if you haven't been reading Issues, this is a great time to start, as that's the true sequel to New Rules. We'll be back with more Issues goodness next week, but for now, have an after-credits scene to whet your appetite:

"Hi, I can't come to the phone right now because I'm doing Science!!! Probably. Leave a message at the beep! BEEP!"

"Hey widdle, you missed our check-in, give me a call back!"

"Hey widdle, you never called me back? Seriously, where are you? I don't mean to be one of those creepy stalkers but you're starting to worry me."

"Dagna what the shit? I just got a call that you're dead! Seriously. Call me."

"Dagna I'm not kidding."

"Fuck it. I'm coming down there. You better be prepared to get your ass kicked. You hear me? You better be dead, Dagna Janar, or I'll make you wish you were."

Sara hangs up the phone with force, tossing it onto the bed, then checks the tracer once more. _Still moving. She must be alive. Well, there's nothing for it. I guess I'm going to Antarctica._


End file.
